The Roads to Rome
by Ballooney
Summary: BD AU. In the blink of an eye, Jake's actions injure newborn Nessie irrevocably, breaking her spine. Sixteen years later, they meet again. Now a paraplegic, Nessie must choose between the sweet, goofy guy she's in falling love with and the monster that mauled her as a baby. Because all roads lead to Rome, to a place where "Jake and I are bound like Bert and Ernie."
1. Anatomy of the Spine

As of July 21st, with the kind help of Nise7465, the first installment of The Roads to Rome has been slightly modified to include one important detail about Nessie's daily life. All plot elements, and the large majority of the text, remain the same.

* * *

><p>"The spine is a bundle of millions of nerves - the fibers in of which are as thick as a human finger."<p>

Carl J. Banner, my anatomy teacher, raises one porky finger as if to illustrate his point. Mr. Banner is an aging man with a large bald spot in the back of his head, and two tufts of orange hair. From pictures I've seen in old yearbooks – Banner is an alumnus of the school he teaches in– he used to be quite a charmer. The abdominals of his youth have yielded to a massive beer belly. As if to illustrate why, the stench of a half-eaten burger paired up with stale fries permeates the air.

"The nerves carrying information _to _the brain are called sensory neurons. They carry information to the brain about pain, temperature and touch. Contrariwise…"

Around me, there are tiny grunts of confusion, inaudible to the human ear. Banner described the anatomy of the ear in a lecture in September of last year. I recall every detail of it perfectly. My peers wonder if this word, _contrariwise_, is a new anatomy term. In front of me, Cassidy Anthony's brow is furrowed in confusion.

"Is that a word?" Cassidy asks her sidekick, in an un-hushed whisper. The sidekick, a girl named Rachel Geller, shrugs her shoulders.

I wonder about Rachel. From what I've gathered, she doesn't smoke pot, but there's an airy, dopey quality to her voice. It suggests that as an infant, she inhaled pot fumes before she inhaled air. The things she says confirm that theory even more so. On the day of her birthday, she announced to this very table, "I just realized the day of my birthday is the day I was born!" I wasn't very well-acquainted with Rachel at that point, so I laughed at her humor. Looking back, I realize I ought to have been laughing at her stupidity.

"It's a conjunction, Cass," I tell her, to give Cassidy something else to puzzle over. She sneers at me evilly. Immediately thereafter, Cassidy nods, as though she knows what a conjunction is.

"…Motor neurons carry messages _to _the muscles from the brain, dictating movement…"

"I didn't ask _you, _Cullen," she snarls. I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing at her.

It's a big change from our relationship last school year, when Cassidy decided to take me under her evil wing and cushion me in her hard-earned power. By December, I'd decided I was sick of Cassidy's shit, and our short-lived love story ended. Ever since, she and I have exchanged snide comments. When I win with wit, Cassidy looks at me like she wants to rip my head off, and I respond by laughing.

"…and breathing."

At the front of the room, Mr. Banner's beady little eyes nervously scan the room. They land on me and linger there for a couple of seconds. Beads of sweat gather around his wrinkled forehead. From across the room, I can hear the fastening thump of his heart. It typically beats in a slow, rhythmic drumming, as his blood struggles to push through his pork-clogged arteries. For somebody educated in the biology of heart disease, he sure eats a lot of Twinkies. I can smell the stash of it on the cabinet where he stores textbooks.

Banner is _nervous, _I realize, even though that is his chronic state. The man is perpetually terrified of having his limited, hard-earned authority challenged. He typically lectures us in a thunderous voice, as though he thinks he's the President delivering the State of the Union to Congress. At the same time, Banner's voice has the breathy quality of a constipated Donald Duck. The irony is that he _really _does think his words are god's gift to humanity, and he delivers them accordingly. He has no qualms about showing us that he thinks he shouldn't be teaching. In his authoritarian mind's eye, we're all an insult to his intelligence. At the same time, Banner deliciously enjoys picking on innocent, if slightly mentally challenged, teenagers. His eyes light up like Chucky coming alive when he finds an excuse for punishment. I think the State of New York did a good thing in denying him a medical license. He'd have the bedside manner of Dr. House and an oblivious toddler.

This time, however, he is nervous in the biological sense of the word. Suddenly, I realize it's because he thinks this is a delicate topic. We've been talking about the spine, and since mine was crushed like an eggshell, Banner fears the subject might make me wail like teenage girls during re-runs of Titanic. Banner's beady, rat-like eyes are lingering on the wheelchair I'm sitting on. The thump of his heart grows erratic. Most people, including myself, land in wheelchairs thanks to damage to the spine. Banner doesn't know of that the damage _I_ sustained wasn't of the garden variety, and not because thoracic injuries are rare. The specifics would give his heart a real reason to pound erratically. Touched by his tact, however, I give him a small smile – as if to urge him on. Then I return to the doodles on my note-book.

"The spinal cord is surrounded by the vertebral column. It is also encased by CFS, a fluid meant to cushion the delicate aforementioned nerves meant to protect it from banging," Banner continues. My seventeen-year-old classmates burst into gregarious giggles, like 12-year-olds looking at their first stash of _Playboys_. I roll my eyes a little, and continue gnawing on my lips. Mr. Banner's potato-shaped head turns the color of a tomato.

"Everybody stop," Cass says authoritatively in her little girl voice, "and listen to Mr. Banner."

Cassidy Anthony has built her web of power through two techniques. One of them has been to glue her bee-stung lips to the asses of St. Mary Margaret's faculty. Otherwise pea-brained, Banner has enough of an inferiority complex that he's one of the few teachers to refuse this kind of evil tactic. It's no doubt one of the reasons why she and I were paired up as "buddies" when my family and I arrived to upstate New York. She's the President of the senior class, and regularly meets with the headmaster, Mr. Ronald Gayheart, to "act as liaison" between the student council and the head of school. I'm amazed at the fact that a man in his 50s is putty in the hands of a blonde bimbo of questionable academic intelligence, even if said bimbo is a social _genius. _I understand _how _she does it, though. I _invented _sounding all cute to play the sympathies of men older than myself.

The second pillar of her web of evil is that she's raised the hem of her skirt to go past her mid-thigh. The good sisters of St. Mary Margaret pay her no mind, even though they have mild aneurisms at the sight of a piercing outside the earlobe or messy hair. I know this is also a sign of the good sisters' hypocrisy, as they've never once asked my father or uncle – who sometimes put Billy Ray Cyrus' mullet to shame – to comb back their hair.

St. Mary Margaret, or St. Marge's as it is fondly known, is a private, Catholic institution in upstate New York. Compared to the other places where we have lived, New York State is as sunny as Florida. My uncles and father decided that Catholicism and a band of post-menopausal nuns would protect me from doing the dance with no pants. Daddy decided it was best not to enroll me at the nearby St. Olaf, an all-girls school. The penis embargo, Daddy surmised, included his own. He preferred being with me - amid a sea of "disgusting little cretins" - than without me. Without them to terrorize a band of teenage boys, Daddy and the Uncles trusted Father Benedict's violent sermons against the evils of pre-marital sex would protect me from engaging in them. Of course, nobody considered the possibility that _I _would want to do something. (Last time that thought flitted to my head, Daddy had the vampire-equivalent of a stroke).

Having dodged the bullet – talking about spinal protection mechanisms in front of someone whose mechanisms weren't enough - , Banner proceeds. He doesn't linger on the lovely subject of mechanisms to protect the spinal cord, nor does he bitch out Cassidy.

Instead, he plunges right into the fascinating topic of the myelin sheath. He writes out the two words powerfully, and underlines them for emphasis. The marker screeches under the weight of his porky, red fist. The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

"These two words will be your worst nightmare, people," Banner says in a breathy voice. His words dance with ill-concealed glee. "I won't expect any of you to understand, even if you do pursue a career in pre-med and biochemistry, as I myself did."

There's a chorus of well-hidden snickers. Banner tries to pretend like he forewent a career in medicine because he would be a fantastic biochemist. We all know better.

Immediately, Banner launches into a "lecture".

From then on, Banner only pauses for emphasis only when he's about to say something particularly difficult, beaming as if to say, "See, little fuckers? I understand, and yet all of _you _don't."

He throws jumbled pieces of information out as fast as he can. Beads of his over-eager saliva sprinkle the entirety of the first row. He continues rattling on, throwing words in like a contestant on Pyramid.

Banner is the living proof that "those who can't do, teach," is the most inaccurate statement in the universe – right after the bullshit Banner spews out during his Pyramid-like lecture. There's a skill to teaching, to weaving lines between each concept. After twenty minutes of it, even I find myself brain dead.

* * *

><p>The shrill ring of the bell stops the lecture. Banner stops. His heart is pounding madly, air coming out of him in rapid, enthralled bursts. The scent of his blood is sweet with endorphins. His onion-sprinkled breaths come out in small huffs and puffs. Banner beams as my classmates as they file out of the room like a caravan of exhausted donkeys, having reasserted his own superiority. Outside the window, the fields are green, the sky is blue and the sun is streaming past the glass, giving my skin a glow. The blue of the sky is threatened by the first cloud cover we've seen all week. I wait for the sweaty, hungry and angry to file out before maneuvering my chair out of my desk.<p>

It's a somewhat complicated 3-point turn. The hallway between the desks is narrow, though, and I'd stop the end-of-school traffic, which is why I wait. Even at sixteen, there are some classmates of mine who huff impatiently if I slow them down as I maneuver through the minefield of chairs and desks. I wait for all of them to leave to be able to do it in peace. Traffic is heavier out in the hallways, and people are _buzzing _with the desire to leave. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to maneuver through that if I wasn't an undead look-alike of a Disney Princess. Even with that ethereal beauty about me, I get hit by wayward backpacks and shoved everywhere by douches – when I happen to be alone to do it.

Buzz Hemlich, the linebacker of the football team, and Jason Lafferty are waiting outside the Anatomy classroom – evidently for me. They do it to "protect me." Most of the time, comments such as those makes me turn red. Sometimes, it's a blush because I find it sweet in a goofy kind of way. Others, I turn red with anger. Where Buzz is concerned, I'm either filled with a desire to slap Buzz in the face or to squeeze him like a big teddy bear.

"Wanna go, babe?" he says, giving me a sly grin.

"For the 100th time, Buzz, don't call me 'babe'," I snap. Emmett says he wants to "beat the shit" out of Buzz, because nobody should call me "babe" without my consent. I told him not to, because to "beat the shit out of somebody" out of irritation is just as bad as calling them babe without their consent. My Aunt Rose went for the shallow route of "You'd have to beat all of the boys in that building," beaming with self-satisfaction.

"Whatever you say, gorgeous," Buzz tries again. I inhale sharply. "Although I guess you've told me not to call you that, too, huh?"

"One thousand two-hundred and sixty-four times," I mutter. He laughs. He thinks I'm being funny. How I wish I _was. _

Buzz grabs on to the handles of the chair to push me as soon as I'm out of the classroom. Last time he tried to do that in my father's presence, my father bruised his knuckles. Even that hasn't deterred him. The fact that he _worries _about me is what keeps me from reacting like my father does. Buzz is genuinely worried about my wellbeing to the point of going past an angry, brokenhearted and grieving vampire to do it. As for me, it wouldn't take me much effort to pry Buzz's large hands off the handles. It would be as easy as picking daisies. Last time I did it, though, Buzz's face fell as though as if I'd kicked his puppy – and I felt like a raging bitch.

"I can get it, Buzz," I say sweetly, almost kindly.

"You'll tire out your arms," he says quietly, almost tenderly. I resist the urge to point out that there's nothing wrong with my arms. Then again, Buzz isn't the sharpest tool in the shed. Of course, it _flatters _me that he feels protective over me, as misguided as it is. My cheeks flame, even as I roll my eyes at him. There are coils of butterflies in my stomach, even though I don't find Buzz attractive. I understand _why _people would. He's well-muscled, burly even, with electric blue eyes and well-trimmed blonde hair. Even then, I smile a little with self-satisfaction at the thought that he chose me over the many bimbos of St. Marge's – even though I think he's of average intellect at best and his type of good looks don't float my boat.

I deserve a first-class ticket to Hell.

The first time he saw me, Buzz Hemlich said I had the "most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen." There was a little drool hanging from his lips and his mouth was open. He made me laugh, and ever since, I've been partial to Buzz. The mossy, bright emerald green color of my eyes I got from my father's gene pool – he found Buzz' comment mortifying. My father says that my eyes have their "character" from my mother, whatever the fuck that means. If I didn't know any better, I'd think my father was on high-quality weed.

My friend Simon explained it once, though.

"They make you look all cute and innocent," Simon explained once, "And then you open your mouth and the illusion dies. You're what happens when a Disney Princess meets a grumpy old geezer with a stick up their ass. Plus, you sound like Wanda Sykes."

Loud guffaws erupted from my family's table. Emmett Cullen _fell _out of his cafeteria seat, nearly breaking it, struggling to breathe. It was a miracle he didn't blow our cover in that very second; anybody laughing that hard should have been the color of my Aunt Rose's lipstick. Tears should've been rolling out of his eyes. As he _wheezed _with maniacal laughter_, _he clung to his abdomen as if his stomach would spill out. People were too shocked too notice his body wasn't on par with his laughter.

There was far more irony to Simon's words than one would think. I really love that boy, I do. Emmett was laughing at the irony more so than at the description of my character. Regardless, he's been calling me Wanda when I sass him out, and starts bellowing like cattle whenever Wanda Sykes is on television, beckoning me to her.

Everything about my face and its arrangement screams "delicate", from a long, swan-like neck; a delicate chin in a heart-shaped face; a pert little nose with a very delicate tip; dimples on peach-colored cheeks; all the way to big, doe-like eyes framed by thick black eyelashes. I understand why sometimes, Buzz Hemlich – or Kyle Mueller, Kevin de Praeter and Alejandro Martinez, if and when they're on weed – touches me like I'm made of porcelain, staring at me with their mouths hanging open. The attention works like a little thrill, running across my veins and heating up my blood with a dark sense of self-satisfaction. The little thrill, the sense of flattery, is what keeps me allowing Buzz to escort me places even though I have no intention of indulging his silly fantasies.

Like I said, I would be gal-pals with the evil stepmother from Snow White.

Simon is waiting for me in front of my locker when I get there. Buzz is holding the handles of the chair even though I'm pushing the wheels as a mechanism to nurse my ego. People give us a wide berth, keeping book-bags and shoves away. There are rumors circulating that Buzz and I are dating, even though Buzz and I are yet to discuss anything other than football play-offs.

Simon arches an eyebrow when he sees us. I glare at him, shrugging my shoulders to indicate my mortification. As I open the door to my locker, Buzz drops the chair's handles and starts running his large fingers through my ponytail. Aunt Rose insists on putting ribbons in my hair like I'm in the third grade. I snatch the mahogany-colored ponytail from his fingers with enough force to rip it out of my skull.

"This isn't the 1950s, Buzz," Simon says. "Get off her."

My love for Simon flares up inside my heart like fireworks on the 4th of July. I love that boy. I really do. My father, my Uncles – _and _goddamned Buzz – all resort to physical strength to "protect me." Simon uses dry wit. Also, it must take a shitload of guts to stand up to Buzz Hemlich – he's almost seven feet tall and built like a blonde, puberty-ridden Schwarzenegger. Gangly and skinny, Simon is 5"8. He wears skinny gray jeans and a two pairs of converse, which drive the good sisters of St. Marge absolutely insane. His tousled, caramel colored hair hangs down his head and brushes his shoulders, obscuring a pair of honey-colored eyes.

"Who's going to make me, cocksucker?" Buzz demands, rising to his full height. Above me, Buzz's ham-sized arms shoot out to slam Simon against the locker doors.

Angry, I snap. I turn the chair far more quickly than I should've – any faster, and I would've pivoted out of the chair with the force of the spin. I have hurt the rubber on the chair's wheels from manhandling it. I look up at Buzz, my eyes blazing, and I shove him backwards with the palm of my hand. It meets his abdomen hard, but not hard enough to make him wince. I am supposed to be a human female weighing 110 pounds.

"Buzz, you're _such_ an idiot!" I cry angrily.

"Aw, Nessie, don't get mad," he begs. Buzz takes my hand in his sweaty palm, caressing the knuckles. I wrench it free. Looking at him with all the disappointment I can muster, I shake my head and spin the chair around towards the locker.

"Twinkle-toes knows that I don't mean any harm," Buzz tries again, in an attempt at a good-natured joke. I don't need to turn around to know his eyes are pleading at me and shooting daggers at my best friend.

"Fuck off," Simon snaps.

"Using a nickname from the 6th grade isn't helping your case," I snarl. I fling my locker door open with so much force the freshman besides me jumps up in fright. Furiously, I stick my anatomy textbook inside the locker and take out my trench-coat.

"Yours? I didn't know you didn't like it when people call you Nessie," Buzz says stupidly. What is worse, he's oblivious to the cruelty inherent in bullying Simon like an ape in the zoo or a pimple-ridden 7th grader.

"Ugh." My statement is colored with sickened disgust.

"Not that, fuckhead," Justin tells Buzz in a whisper. Neither of them suspect I'm able to hear, three feet below Buzz' ear. "Twinkle-toes."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Mentally, I run through the materials I need to take home. As I stuff them in my purse-like knapsack, Justin finally speaks up.

"Listen, Ness, there's a bonfire at my place tonight after the game," Jason offers. I begin chugging down on my lip. I hate games, not necessarily because I hate watching sports. In fact, Uncle Emmett has made me a stark raving mad fan of ESPN, and Dad has made me a worshipper of the Chicago White Sox.

"Where are you playing?"

"FDR High," Justin replies tentatively.

Put simply, I hate the bleachers. The field at FDR High isn't accessible, what with no wheelchair ramps. To make matters worse, the trek from the parking lot to the field is filled with gravel, which means I can't push myself and have to be pushed around. I feel bad for whoever is stuck doing it – usually Simon – and the embarrassment is gigantic. Wheelchairs and bleachers aren't compatible either, such that it's usually necessary to carry me up there – which leaves me 100% at the mercy of whoever does the carrying. That alone makes me more uncomfortable than discussing Aunt Flo with my grandfather. The icing on the cake is that I can't sit up unsupported and have to hold up my weight the entire game, which is more uncomfortable than tiring.

"Isn't it a bit rude not to invite Simon, too, Justin?" I say snappishly.

Like I said, Maleficent and I would be besties. I give zero shits about Justin's manners; it's just easier to act self-righteous than to go into all of the above. That's my _personal _shit. Simon is glaring at me as though as if he wants to strangle me with his bare hands. Spending hours around a bonfire drinking cheap beer with the football team and their entourage is not his idea of fun. Neither is mine, as much as I occasionally Buzz's enjoy Buzz' worshipping, so I'm using Simon as bait. Really, I'm a top candidate for martyrdom.

"Yeah, Lowell can come, too," Justin offers, without sparing Simon a glance.

"I'd love to go, Lafferty," Simon says sardonically, as I continue to gnaw on my lips. Aunt Rose _hates _it when I do that.

Guilt nudges me in the stomach. I ignore her. Instead, I fling around to hang my knapsack from the chair handles. I hate the thing, preferring a sturdy backpack by miles. However, Buzz and others like him insisted on carrying it for me, oblivious to the fact that it hung from the back of my chair. If they knew about the _personal _stuff housed within it, they would probably drop it like a hot potato. Luckily, I didn't need to share any of it with them - they became aware of this fact once my backpack was replaced by a feminine, leather-bound purse.

"Thanks for the invite, Justin," I say sweetly. "I'll think about it."

Forcing me to pinch the bridge of my nose for the 4th time in a day, Buzz adds desperately, "Please come, baby, please."

"Holy mother of Jesus, Buzz!" I cry, furious. In my head, I hear my grandfather say, _Don't take the lord's name in vain! _I ignore him. "Stop calling me _baby_, or _babe_, or whatever else it is you pull out of your ass."

I mumble the last part. Tugging on Simon's sleeve, I roll away from Buzz. The latter boy calls me, begging like a lost puppy, but I don't turn around to look. I'm torn between feeling like a raging bitch, and complimenting myself for my assertiveness. I hate Buzz for treating me like I'm made of glass, even when it upsets me that he's not trudging after me.

I'm in desperate need of a shrink.

"I need to go to the bathroom," I tell Simon once we're far away from Buzz. It's a lie; I don't _need _to go to the bathroom, as I can't feel the urge. In fact I've _never_ felt the urge, in the same way that I have never feel anything from below the chest. However, I do need to go through the romantic notion of "emptying the bladder. " There's no need to tell Simon all the details of what that entails. It's better to leave everyone thinking I'm a Disney Princess and that I have the bodily functions of one.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Lowell," I tell him.

"Nice try, Cullen," he says. "You're not off the hook. We still need to talk about that snake pit at Lafferty's."

"It'll be fun," I try, in a falsely saccharine voice, emulating Cassidy. "We can braid each other's hair and talk about how great we are."

When Simon _finally_ gives me a half-hearted grin, I enter the girls' bathroom. St. Marge's renovated the entire first floor to make it _accessible _instead of "accessible" the summer before we enrolled. Even then, it's far from perfect. I wash my hands first, even though I'll use hand-sanitizer again. I have to back up the chair against the sink to be able to pull the door open, and even then it's a bit of a struggle to squeeze into the stall. The stall is nowhere _near _accessible. My family was ready to bitch out the school some more until I pointed out I don't need to get off the chair to use them. Next summer, they'll change it, in case a student comes along that does.

The first thing I do to get situated. I pull my knapsack off the back of my chair and hang it. Thanks to Rose, the school installed a hook on the wall next to where I park my chair. The brilliant handyman – as most handymen are where wheelchairs are concerned - hung it high, but I manage, however uncomfortably. Conveniently, when un-zippered, the front of the bag drops down providing a clean place for me to work. I'm able to work out of my bag, protecting my catheter supplies from the breeding ground for germs that this bathroom is.

Once all my supplies are laid out, I lock the chair brakes and lift myself up enough to pull up my uniform skirt and lower my stockings. One at a time, I lift my feet by my thick stockings, and place them on the rim of the toilet seat. Situated, I pull out a hand sanitizer wipe and clean my hands. A tiny make-up mirror gets propped up conveniently by my panties, allowing me to guide the extending catheter tube into my urethra to relieve myself. I can't feel the tube, or the relief that accompanies the draining of my bladder. Yet I do feel a familiar tinge of relief as soon as the catheter's begins to fill with urine – like a little burst of satisfaction people get when they parallel park right.

After I'm all done, the corner of the bag tears off and slowly, I empty its contents down the toilet. It doesn't sound like the typical hiss of urine as it hits the water in the commode. There are many rumors about what I do in the bathroom. Few people have the heart or the brain to stop speculating. Some Einstein thought the water falling sounded like _vomit _– which it didn't – and spread rumors I was bulimic.

Using a catheter has always been a pan in the ass, especially for me - as I'm teenaged and vain enough to find it fucking _mortifying_. Catheterizing in a public place is as awkwardly painful as waxing the va-jay-jay. God decided that since I can't feel the pain of the latter, the former must be felt. It isn't only a matter of embarrassment – as I fight back every day. If I don't void every 4 to 6 hours, I'd have accidents - and not always the run-of-the-mill pants peeing ones.

Reaching for the toilet paper makes me feel like an Olympic gymnast, but I get sufficiently cleaned up and dressed. The last thing I do before leaving the stall is to wipe down the seat so the next person isn't putting their private parts in the same place I had my dirty feet. It's probably no use, in terms of protecting some of my classmates from infection, as Cassidy is probably an incubator for genital herpes. It is, however, a courtesy to most others.

The girl washing her hands outside – how I _hate _her for her unthinking ability to piss - tries not to stare as I squeeze out of the stall. Blushing madly, I tilt my head down as I was my hands, avoiding her face desperately.

Then there are the more mature considerations to catheterizing – other than, "however idiotic my classmates are, I still don't want them to make fun of me for _this._" Until the stricter health regulations came in, it was like pulling hair to use a new, sterile catheter every time I had to piss. The iPod 5 of catheterizing was a one piece sterile unit with a lubricated tube inside a sterile collection bag. It's design eliminated the need to carry a urinal, or attempt to hit the toilet with the stream flowing from a length of rubber too short to bridge the gap. It's a pity Alice can't appreciate why it's a designer marvel.

Firstly, I stopped feeling like a little boy learning to use his little wiener when the gap was too short. Secondly, it made accidents less frequent. I couldn't _feel_ the wet spot when I miscalculated in the past, but it was _fun_ to smell it all day long – along with knowing the Adams (Cullen) family could, too. My family members are still…learning to deal with my disability even though it's been a fact of my life minutes after that life had started. They alternate between casual, medically-oriented references to my needs – which makes me feel like a petri dish – or, in Daddy's case, looking sick with pain and guilt.

Simon is waiting for me, knees drawn to his chest, drumming his fingers against his knees. The boy is such a saint. When he sees me, he smiles.

"You don't have to go to the bonfire if you don't want to," I say softly.

I grab on to his sleeve and stroke the raised bone of his wrist. The hallways are emptying out. There are a couple of people lounging near the lockers. They give us a wide berth or snicker at us as we make our way through the hallway. If people didn't find the concept of someone like _me _being a slut, I'd have the reputation for it – from Hemlich to Simon to whoever else feels indulgent. In fact, I know there aren't more people chasing after me because some of them suspect that I _can't _fuck. As Cassidy very eloquently put it once, I'm "too crippled to fuck", and that's worked as a deterrent. I try not to dwell on the fact that Cassidy may be technically right. She made me cry when I overheard her, and that's one time too many.

Outside, the sunlight is being chipped away by a cover of gray clouds. It's breezy outside. I wait to park my chair next to one of the wooden benches. Simon sits beside me. He hasn't said anything, but waits for me patiently as I slip on my cashmere sweater.

"Besides, it might rain," I add, frightened by his silence. "It might get cancelled."

Finally, he exhales – it isn't quite a sigh.

"This is the one time you might actually need protection," he finally says. I think it's meant to be a joke. It doesn't sound like one.

* * *

><p>Later, I spot Daddy's silver-colored Audi in the distance, past the shrub and bricked fence of the parking lot. From my reflection on the gleaming front of the silver Audi, I watch my entire face light up as the corners of my lips break into a smile.<p>

"I'll see you at the bonfire, Ness," Simon tells at the sight of the car. From behind the tinted mirror, Daddy arches one disapproving eyebrow. The look on his face says, "Hell, no." However, the chances of _those_ words coming out of his mouth are as high as the chances of Carlisle ditching medicine to become a male stripper. Against his will, Daddy smiles at the thought.

"As are the chances of you going to this _event_," Dad bites, loud and clear for my unhuman ears. He mumbles the word "event" as though I intend to go to a brothel.

At the sight of Daddy's car, Simon untwines his hand from mine from where he's been holding it. I'd been tracing circles on the back of his palm with my finger. Daddy grimaces, looking at Simon with a look that isn't quite unrestrained revulsion. It's more like stoic resignation. Daddy barks out a laugh. Letting go of my hand, Simon rises from the bench where he sits next to me, running his hand through the tousles of his hair.

"You sure you wanna come?" I ask, one final time, cocking my head to the side. "It's going to be its own form of torture." Finally, though, guilt wins its fight in my stomach. I'm not going to use Simon as an excuse to feel less miserable during the very brief spurs of time in which Buzz decides to unglue his lips from my ass.

"The things I do for you, Cullen," Simon says, laughing. Unlike at the exit, the smile reaches his eyes. He waves at me and walks away, hanging his knapsack across his chest. He waited for me to be picked up; he has his own Mini Cooper, because it's the kind of school where Rosalie's cherry red BMW doesn't look out of place.

Daddy parallel parks the car in front of the bench next to where my chair is stationed, and climbs out of the car. To my left and right, hearts begin pounding erratically, and breaths hitch in the throats of horny teenaged bitches. Typically, he'd me furious at my use of the word "bitches."

Today, he's too happy to care. Our earlier little rift is forgotten, as we both remember we haven't seen each other for a month. His smile is just as bright as mine. It never fully lights every corner of his amber eyes, but he still looks ecstatic. He squats down so I can throw my arms around him, and he squeezes me tightly to his chest.

"I missed you so much, sweetheart," he breathes, sounding almost weak with relief. It's a whisper only I can hear. "So, so much. From the moon and back. Three times over."

Being a miniature little geek, I used to be fascinated by the distance between the Earth and its satellite. It was my favorite metaphor growing up.

_I missed you too, Daddy. _My palm finds the back of his neck.

"Isn't he such a cutie?" A member of my Dad's teenaged fan-club whispers this to a girlfriend in the form of a high-pitched squeal.

I gag a little. I shoot her a nasty glare, as if questioning not only her choice in men but her mental sanity. There are people looking, everywhere – my father is the object of many a perverted, nasty-ass fantasy which I've had the misfortune of hearing. His many fan-girls stare at him as avidly as if he were an engrossing novel, forcing us both to act less upbeat. I can't bring myself to do it. Neither can he, even though he's supposed to have the self-control of a monk at the height of the dark ages. We're not supposed to be this happy to see each other. We're brother and sister, first of all. This behavior from siblings would be delightful fodder for Sigmund Freud. Second of all, I'm supposed to have seen him every day for the past month, even if my classmates haven't.

Supposedly, he came down with a heavy case of mono for the past three weeks, and went camping with my family for the sunny last week. The reality is that he left the state of New York a month ago and decided to come back yesterday.

"I'm so glad you're feeling better," I say loudly, for the sake of the teenage girls sighing their little black hearts out. He strokes my hair.

"The fresh air was reinvigorating," he replies, sounding like Emmett when he pretends to be enjoying a human meal_. _I repress the urge to slam my hand against my forehead in exasperation. Most teenagers would say, "Camping kicked ass, baby!" I roll my "big, doe-like eyes" at him.

_And the Oscar goes to Edward Cullen, _I think snidely.

He grins at me, in spite of my cheek.

"Ready to go, princess?" he asks.

Even then, his voice is somehow quiet – in the same way that Emmett has no volume other than "booming-as-if-yelling-across-a-field," Daddy's voice is always low in pitch. Next to me, a girl's eyes are glazed over at the sound. I've heard _five_ people – Cassidy included – say that they fantasize about my father "talking dirty to them." That's five people too many – and five times I've wanted to blow my brains out.

Dad smiles a crooked grin. He finds me funny. How I wish this _was funny. _

"You seem to be freezing. This sweater is too flimsy." Without another word, he takes off his coat and puts it on me like I'm three. To my left, somebody _whimpers. _Sweet Jesus.

"Da – Edward, stop," I say, slapping his hand away before slipping my hand through his coat. "Let's go."

As he walks away to open the door to the passenger side, I roll towards the curb. There's a wheelchair ramp further away, but it'd take me longer to get to it than it would for him to just lift me off out of the chair. Yet again, he squats down, and I wrap my arms around his neck. He sticks his hands under my knees and lifts me out of the chair. My legs dangle like limp noodles, practically swaying in the breeze like leaves off a willow. Daddy shoots me a disapproving glare. Around us, teenage girls _swoon_.

"He's so considerate," somebody whispers. I snort my laughter, and Dad smiles against his will.

Right along with "having him whisper 'fuck me, babe' in my ear," being carried bridal is another life aspiration for many of St. Marge's young females. I don't have to be Jasper to feel the jealousy pulsating; Alyssa Lawrence, one of Cassidy's minions-and-rivals is glaring at me. Bitches are crazy, I think. By the look on his face, Daddy's inclined to agree with me. It crosses none of their minds that neither he nor I like the situation. It kills him a little bit inside to hold me like this, legs dangling like dead weight, unresponsive.

Daddy sets me down. He tries to put on my seatbelt. I slap his hand away.

"I'm not _four," _I point out. It sounds more like banter than a snarl, and he smiles a little.

"I know, Ness," Dad says, pinching my cheek. "Old habits die hard, though."

He shuts the car door, the one thing he should do for me. I can't sit up unsupported, and it's more likely that I'll plummet out of the Audi than that I successfully close the door. Dad walks around the front of the car and folds up the chair. A girl named Kyla Suarez waves at him. He responds with a nod, and an expression worthy of a colonoscopy.

Alyssa Lawrence, who thinks she is god's gift to the male of the species, shoots Kyla a look filled with faux pity. She stands up and struts towards my father, swaying her hips like Rosalie does when she tries to get Emmett's attention. Dad's expression makes me laugh – he looks like he's staring at the hairy ass undergoing a colonoscopy.

Too self-involved to notice, Alyssa goes for a sultry, "Hey, Edward." She sounds like she's drunk.

"Good afternoon," my Dad replies tersely.

Given the expression on Alyssa's face, she heard something along the lines of "Alyssa, my love. Tell me about your day. It must've been absolutely _enthralling._"

Alyssa inches closer. As if in response, my Dad takes a step back. Ever persistent, Alyssa reaches out to put a hand on his chest.

"Good afternoon indeed," she whispers, batting her eyelashes.

The contents of my lunch threaten to spill out into the leather seats of the Audi. This is disgusting. It's like watching hyenas mating on the Discovery Channel.

I roll down the window, and stick out my head. I probably look like a Golden Retriever. It's a far less wretched side than watching a blonde 17-year-old put her hand on my father's century-old chest, and having my father look at it as though it were covered in urine.

"Edward," I say loudly, wrinkling my nose. It's so _bizarre _to call him that. "Edward, it's almost 4:00."

"We really are in a rush," Dad says curtly. "Good day, Allison."

I bark out a laugh. Alyssa turns to glare at me, and then quickly composes her face. It's not a good move to glare at the "little, weak, paralyzed" sister of the object of your perverted sexual fantasies, by your own admission. In the meantime, Daddy climbs into the car and drives out of the parking lot. In the meantime, I play a little with his radio. _The Funeral March _is playing on the channel for classical music. Typically, I wouldn't mind listening to this – but its Friday, after school. He can't be serious.

"We're not listening to robots beeping and rappers cussing," he says, but his tone is light. He's smiling even though he's looking vaguely traumatized about Alyssa's desperate flirting.

"Well, as much as your little girlfriend's stint made me want to kill myself, we're not listening to this," I retort back. "It's depressing." After a bit of fumbling, I settle on a retro station playing _1979 _by the Smashing Pumpkins. We ride in compatible silence, until the radio host informs us of the name of the song and proceeds to play _The Sultans of Swing _by the Dire Straits.

"It's funny that the Smashing Pumpkins is now considered Retro," Dad says. "This only came out in '96."

"It came out nearly 30 years ago," I say, "nearly a third of a human lifetime."

"Once you've lived a century, it feels like the blink of an eye," he says thoughtfully. His voice darkens nearly imperceptibly, and he turns to gaze out the window, at the massive oaks passing us by. I think about the implication of what he's saying – when I've lived a century…

I look at the prospect of living for a century with a body unresponsive from the chest down with trepidation, to say the least.

I can't imagine it. I don't know what it feels like to _walk _– I've never felt the sensation of it, in spite of the fact that I've experienced the mechanics of it in a Swiss rehab center. Hell, I don't even feel a sense of loss. I lost my legs before I even had a chance to use them. I feel _frustrated, _yes – I can't even take a shit without artificial intervention, and sometimes it _hurts. _You think it wouldn't hurt, being paralyzed, but it's the cruelest irony of all. Sometimes, it hurts so _much _it's hard to think. It's called neuropathic pain, a burning sensation below the line of injury. "Burn", though, feels like putting it mildly.

"But it'll stop one day, sweetheart," Daddy vows. "I promise."

His voice is gentle, even if his face is contorting with pain, but there's an undercurrent of fire to it. Gingerly, he takes my hand and kisses the back of it. If the intensity of his vow isn't enough, the fire in his voice and the pulsating rage, his actions are proof enough that it isn't an empty promise. He's done everything in his power to make his vow come to fruition. My family donates _millions _of dollars a year to stem cell research, and then some. Thousands of millions of Cullen money have gone into anything related to the treatment of injuries to the spinal cord Banner lectured us about. Carlisle is doubling as a researcher and physician at the Mayo clinic, and Daddy has every intention of going into neuroscience as soon as he graduates from St. Marge's.

His face is crumbling between a mix of resolute desperation and overwhelming pain, his features twisting in agony. I reach out to squeeze Daddy's hand, letting him know – through feelings, if not thoughts – that I don't mind. It's the truth – most of the time, I don't. I lead a very happy, blessed life. All of my family is kind of oblivious to that fact. In this family, everybody manages to blame _everything _on their person. Everybody feels _personally _responsible for the second biggest tragedy of my existence. Hell, I've heard my grandmother blame herself for what happened because of the _positioning of the freaking staircase. _

It's a miracle I grew into such an upbeat person.

"I wouldn't say upbeat, love," Daddy teases me. "Snarky, sassy seems like a better choice of vocabulary."

"You've called me your little ray of sunshine," I point out. _Because I lit up his world, _he'd say.

My family does have a collective guilt complex. He likes to say that he didn't deserve either me or my late mother, and that he failed us. How he failed us is beyond me, especially where the chair and the injury is concerned. Rosalie wishes that she hadn't lifted me up into the air to coo at me, that she'd been stronger, her grip on me a little tighter. She forgets I was wrenched out of her grip; there are two sets of teeth to the side of my ribcage to prove it. Emmett blames himself for not being there to protect us and Jasper for the exact same reason. It's as if they all feel their actions landed me in the chair.

It's none of their faults, though.

The _person _to blame, I think delicately, is a werewolf by the name of Jacob Black.


	2. Guttural Sound of Fear

Nessie's Friday doesn't go as planned, but it's not for the reasons she expected.

* * *

><p><strong>The Guttural Sound of Fear <strong>

Once the name has left the depth of my subconscious, my entire body responds. My palms begin to sweat, and beads of sweat build in the _delicate _crook of my neck, along my collarbones. Breathing hitched, I find it difficult to exhale. The contents of my stomach churn, threatening to spill out of my parched mouth. Under my skin, my blood boils, flushing the entirety of my body, even though I can't _feel _a lot of it. It's my body's natural reaction to my biggest fucking fear, one as entrenched in my psyche as the knowledge of my own name. _Fuck_, I think.

Daddy doesn't say anything, but I know he's not taking it any better. He's only sworn three times in my presence. All three of the curses were in some way describing Black. (In all fairness, he wasn't cursing _in front of me. _I happened to be within earshot.) In typical Edward Cullen style, he blames my regular use of the words "fuck", "son of a bitch" and "bastard" to his slips in control. Daddy ignores that I was raised by Emmett, a man so foulmouthed that he makes the Queen sound like a horny sailor. Unlike his brother, Daddy is too circumspect to offend my delicate female ears. Either that or the Victorian Era really was that incredibly uptight – like the Middle Ages making a comeback before giving way to the debauchery of the 1920s.

Daddy rolls his eyes. "I'd hardly call us _medieval, _Renesmee," he says.

I snicker. The best way to get his panties in a twist is to criticize the era of his birth. The corners of my lips turn up, and I tilt my head sideways to hide my grin. Around us, the forest is thickening. We're less than a mile from the house now.

"…Some of the biggest breakthroughs in science were made in the Victorian Era, ranging from the discovery of the Plum Pudding atomic model, and the first steps to the discovery of Penicilin…"

Good god in heaven, my father _really _is 120 years old. Whenever he starts talking about the things he's lived through he starts to sound like Mr. McCreedy, a grouchy old man that is always shopping for Campbell cans of soup at Trader Joe's. For some reason, Nana and I _always _bump into the poor old man, and hence, listening to a story about 'Nam in the 70s. Like a bird of prey, he waits outside Trader Joe's for people like Nana, who are too polite to tell him they have something better to do than listening to his heroics against the "goddamned Reds" and his tirade against Vladimir "fuckin'" Putin.

"Regardless," Daddy says, interrupting my train of thought. "I'd say we were more civilized back then. There's nothing progressive about encouraging young girls to walk around half-naked, or to encourage pre-marital relations of a sexual nature…"

_Pre-marital relations of a sexual nature. _I laugh.

"Isn't that ideal moot nowadays? I mean, marriage is a social contract to protect the spouses' children, but if a couple can't get pregnant before marriage, then there's no reason for them not to roll in the hay."

If my father had blood_, _his face would be turning a hideous shade of _magenta_. He's gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles whitened. The lips on Dad's face are opening and closing like a goldfish's. From the look on his face, you'd think the man had just witnesses a slaughter of some kind. What's probably making his reaction worse is that, by the flair of my thoughts, he can tell I'm not kidding. Because I know he _can't _actually stop breathing or go into shock, I laugh loudly at him.

I really _am _a little ray of sunshine.

We're driving through the cul-de-sac driveway. Inside the house, I can hear Alice's tinkling giggles, Rosalie's snorts of derision, Jasper's throaty chuckles and Emmett's booming laugh. The latter two probably think my comment was an attempt to take the piss out of my father. Emmett even does say (eyes probably twinkling with pride), "Atta girl, traumatize Daddy." If they knew I'd just voiced my legitimate opinion, they wouldn't be laughing.

"Daddy," I say gently, as the garage door opens. "Daddy, I was kidding."

It's a flat lie.

"It wasn't funny," he snarls. In some situations, though, it's best for his mental sanity when we leave certain things unacknowledged.

The existence of my breasts is one of those things.

With his shock giving way to anger, Daddy climbs out of the car. I barely have time to process this; he's reassembled the chair already, and is standing outside. The corners of my lips are turned down, through no fault of my own. Knowing it'll make his anger vanish, I peek up at Daddy through my eyelashes with my "big, doe-like eyes." Even though I call bull on all that mojo about my eyes being "deep and innocent", I peek up through my eyelashes several times a day. It works like a charm.

Besides the chair, Daddy relaxes. "Smart girl," he mumbles.

He gives me the evil eye, but he's no longer as rigid as a goddamned totem pole.

The Audi is small and low enough for me to swivel into the chair by myself. I recline the seat and pull it back a little to give me space. Using my arms, I lift my body out of the seat and angle it towards the chair. Even though I've done it hundreds of thousands of times, Daddy always looks a little nervous. By his wince, you'd think I'd plummet to my death even though my ass is only a foot above the concrete. Then I swing my legs from the seat into the footrests, lowering the two with my hands. I'd be mad at Daddy for panicking, but he panics just as much when I use sharp cutlery. It's just who he is.

Unlike other parking lots, the family makes sure to leave enough space between each car so that it's relatively easy for me to maneuver my chair through the garage. Daddy knows better than to try and push me through it. Being conniving as I am, though, I _am _making him carry my backpack because I don't feel like taking it up to my room.

Like I said, I'm an awful person.

"You're not," Dad says. I don't have to look up to see he's grinning.

There's an elevator built into the house, parallel to the staircase. Nana's cute like that and decided to make the back of it glass, which means I get a spectacular view of Lake Erie and the surrounding forest at least five times a day. I spin around to back up into it, and then blow Daddy a kiss before the elevator doors shut. True to form, he waits for me to be safely in before heading upstairs.

I press the 1st floor button. Typically, I'd go into the kitchen to be fed by my Nana, but she's out of town – she works around the clock for three different charities in the upstate area. Today, I head for the living room.

"You're stayin' home tonight," Emmett _booms _like a motherfucking trumpet. The elevator doors aren't even open, for crying out loud.

"It'll be fun!" I protest in reply, so vehemently _I _even believe my own lie. Suddenly, the prospect of going to this bonfire – hell, maybe even the freezing metallic bleachers – seems deliciously appealing.

"You're just like your mother," my Dad mumbles under his breath with fond irritation, as he comes down the stairs. The range of emotion he manages to inflict into the sentence is incredible. Every time he says it, however briefly, he sounds equal parts amazed, loving, and pained. It warms me a little bit from the inside every day.

I roll out of the elevator to pout at Emmett. As is his way when he isn't thinning out forests – or replanting what he's left undone – or getting rid of invasive species of predator, he's watching ESPN.

I park the chair parallel to the couch and swivel out of it. Careful not to fall, I grab each leg and take off my Mary Janes. It takes a while, bending over, because my abdominal muscles are completely paralyzed. As I raise each leg, I meet some resistance with my abductor – it is harder to fold the leg – in the left one Then, I scoot to the opposite end of the couch using my arms because my hips won't move me My toes are touching Emmett's thigh. Very gently, he grabs both feet and puts them on his lap. Gingerly, he begins to rub them. My feet probably appreciate the gesture, even though they don't do much other than dangle.

Comfortable, I continue my protests.

"I really want to go," I say, pouting. Immediately, I realize I haven't approached this intelligently. I should've called him Uncle Em and raised the pitch of my voice. I hate sounding pitiful, but even then. I'm not opposed to using my voice as the means to an end.

"_Hell_ to the no," Emmett retorts, still sounding like a goddamned trombone. "Why do you want to hang around a bunch of horny little shit-heads?"

"Because," I repeat, raising the pitch of my voice. "It'll be fun."

Emmett grunts. My uncle isn't a man of many words.

Undaunted, I switch tactics. Before he has a chance to turn to the TV, I peek at him from my underneath my lashes, batting them slowly. I relax my face to make sure my eyes widen a little, playing up to my face's "delicacy."

"But Uncle Emmett," I say softly. "I _want _to go."

It's all such bullshit, yet Emmett falls for it like Scarlett O'Hara into Rhett Butler's arms. I have to fight to keep the smugness from ruining my Bambi look.

"Your Daddy agrees with me, pumpkin," he says apologetically, lowering his tone of voice to a gentle, soothing pitch. "It isn't a good idea for you to go."

Now that Emmett's putty in my hands he won't call me out on acting like a brat. Nobody ever calls me out on acting like a brat. I huff irritably, although my irritation doesn't stem from his reply. I'm apparently losing my touch.

"Why?" I demand loudly and obnoxiously.

Before Emmett can say anything, I rattle on.

"It's _just _a bonfire," I whine, placing obnoxious emphasis on the adverb.

"There'll be alcohol," Jasper says, popping out of goddamned nowhere.

I snort derisively. "If 3 grams of Dilaudid can barely knock me out, I doubt a cup of cheap beer is going to do the trick."

Dilaudid is the strongest prescription pain killer in the continental United States. Carlisle tried to use it when the off-counter drug to treat neuropathic pain – Neurotonin - didn't work efficiently enough. Desperation is a harsh mistress, and my grandfather would've sold his soul at that point. I'd tried to down-play the pain, but a touch of my palms could tell them how unbearable it felt. The problem isn't the spinal cord injury as much as it is that Mr. Black did a very thorough job. He dislodged one of my hips, and made my back look like the work of a toddler on a scratch-a-doodle. The injuries can be treated locally, and my grandfather does a beautiful job of it – but pain sometimes flares. Even though I can't _feel _what those injuries are supposed to make me feel, my nervous system does respond. At best, it's with neuropathic pain. At worse, it can lead to Autonomic Dysreflexia.

I really do _hate _Jacob Black, with every fiber of my being.

My family usually doesn't react well to jokes about anything injury-related. Both Jasper and Emmett wince uncomfortably, like I would if I caught Nana and Granddady going at it. (_This, of course, does not happen – ever._) Even Emmett gets a little mopey. Very gently, he lifts up my foot and kisses the arch of it. Before they both go on a self-cutting spree, I continue my protests.

"That's a dumb argument," I tell Jasper.

"The problem isn't _you _getting drunk, darlin'," Jasper replies. "The problem is the idiot boys at school."

""So?" I ask my blonde Uncle rudely, like he's as stupid as Homer Simpson on weed.

Colonel Whitlock and Emmett gape at me incredulously. My uncles are _such_ pussies. Evidently, they're both opposed to my outing – as they have been opposed to the past fifteen. Emmett is too putty in my hands to fight me on it but he won't let me go, and Jasper is about to try some emotional mojo to convince me. I can tell. Nobody in this house has the balls to say "No" to me. I glower at Jasper furiously, and he cowers back as though I pose any threat to his safety. I wish I could kick Emmett in the face to slap this look of incredulity off it. Dumb and Dumber, as I call them when they're acting thusly, then stare at me, as though they expect some light bulb in my head to go off.

Do they think they're going to _hurt _me? My pretty, full pink lips fall open.

"I'm not _fragile,_" I snarl, in a low, throaty voice. I sound like my Dad when he's _furious_. "I can still _defend _myself."

"We know, baby," Jasper pleads. "It's just…_unpleasant_…to be in that environment, with those little shit-heads getting' all touchy-feely, and we don't want you to be uncomfortable."

Foot massage be damned, I lean on my arms to sit up and then scoot back to the couch. Unfortunately, it takes so much time that I look more pitiful than mad, but fuck that.

"It's uncomfortable for _you all,_" I fume. It's uncomfortable for me, too, but they don't need to know that. I really want to prove a point now. Dad's sitting by the piano, listening in to the conversation and staying out of it. Now, he laughs. It's a cold, mocking cackle.

"Besides," I add, ignoring Dad's evil laugh. "I'm an adult. I can make my own decisions."

A chorus of five different variations of "You're not 18 yet!" follows my statement. Emmett's "Fuck, no, you're still a fucking baby," is the most elegant one.

I let out a long, high-pitched whine of irritation. It'd take me a fuckload of time to transfer into the chair and throw a proper tantrum, with door-slamming and yelling galore. I settle for whining pitifully.

"If we're going by human or chronological definitions of age you should join your cohorts at the nursing home!" I say, cackling like a maniac. Then I add, "I've been fully grown for the past nine years, and god knows, I matured a lot faster than that!"

"You're acting like a teenager!" Daddy roars. He's stood up from his desk, and is pacing back and forth, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

I turn around to look directly into his eyes. Unlike my earlier stint with the batting eyelashes, I'm not trying to manipulate my father. _I _am _a teenager. I want to _do _what normal teenagers do, including but not limited to, going out on a Friday night. Yes, there'll be alcohol, and yes, there will be drunken boys but that's part of the normal teenage experience. I deserve, at least, a normal teenage experience._ Lingering in my subconscious, but never voiced or thought, is the fact that I've never been or had fully normal teenage experiences.

Daddy continues his pacing, looking like the goddamned Flash. Irritable, I open my mouth to protest but –

He cuts me off.

"You'll keep your cellphone on you the entire time, on loud," he finally says. "One of us has to be at least within a 1 mile range – "

"That's not fair!" I yell, in a voice high-pitched and whiny. "No one's parents are going to be that close!" Unless you count Mr. and Mrs. Lafferty, but there's no need to lose an argument on a technicality.

Daddy looks at me intensely, his golden eyes looking as stony as the element of their color. The entirety of his face has turned into _ice. _Very subtly, he tilts his head in the direction of the chair. I feel a pang of hurt at the implication of Daddy's gaze. I override it with anger and indignation before the tears can spill out of my big, doe-like eyes.

"I can't get AD from standing near a bonfire!" I yell indignantly. Daddy and I both know that's not what he was implying.

"Edward, that's enough," Aunt Rose finally says, popping out of nowhere – as is a familial habit, apparently. She knows I'm about to cry and is comfortingly rubbing circles on my shoulders, sitting on the headrest. Daddy turns up to give Rose a furious glare. I think its proof of their love for one another that they haven't ripped each other to shreds in 80 years.

"It is," Daddy says through gritted teeth, agreeing to my stray thought. My thought didn't need to be commented on; Daddy's doing it to piss her off. Rose doesn't take the bait.

"Nessie understands the conditions, don't you, darling?" Rose says in a soothing voice, more for his benefit than mine. "She'll have her phone with her at all times, we'll be nearby at a reasonable distance, and she gets picked up at midnight."

"Midnight?!" I squeal, indignant. Rose tilts her head down to give me a Look that says I need to shut the fuck up if I want her support.

"Fine," I huff.

Daddy nods.

Thus endeth the argument.

* * *

><p>A half hour later, I'm strapped inside Emmett's jeep. We're going <em>hunting<em>, as per my request. I feel thirsty, and there is some truth to Jasper's ludicrous fear that my classmates will get touchy-feely if they're high or drunk. As things go, my self-control is the envy of a choco-holic on a diet. However, self-control is best when I'm satiated. I'd rather not tempt fate, as I'm going to be sorely tempted by Alejandro Martinez' neck three inches from my nose. At that distance, the overwhelming scent of his blood makes it easy to ignore the fact that his cologne smells like he bought it from a date rapist outside a gas station.

I stopped drinking human pouches of blood so regularly, because I feel it's like taking resources away from patients at the hospital that need them _urgently. _Daddy says I'm being ridiculous about the matter. "It's like refusing to eat because there are starving children in the Congo," my father had said. I doubt his reasoning. For being so intelligent, my father makes Sarah Palin look like Einstein re-incarnate.

Hence, I accompany my family when they go hunting nearby – which is why I find myself strapped to Emmett's Jeep. It can only make it so far into the forest, though - about 60 miles past rocky, rugged terrain, it's best to stop driving. At this point, the Jeep is about as useful as my wheelchair in the rocky terrain.

"Let's go, short stuff," Emmett says. "We're running on schedule."

Rosalie wants me to do my exercises before I leave for the bonfire. Not a day goes by that she doesn't work my legs, but in spite of her loving care, my legs still look like meatless chicken wings. The fact of the matter is my legs have never supported my body weight, and the muscles have never naturally contracted. Black snapped my spine like a little twig before I'd been on this earth for five minutes. Rosalie says it's vitally important, and that I'll thank her someday, but this is also a woman that finds Emmett Cullen _charming. _What does she know about _anything_?

Sighing, I open the car door. Jasper's outside, waiting. There's no point in taking the wheelchair deeper into the forest, even though it's packed up in the Jeep's trunk. Both of them can carry the titanium wheelchair – and my body in it - like it's made of foam, even with me packed up in it, but it would slow them down. It's not packed up in the car so I can move around in the forest. It's meant to allow me to move in and out of the Jeep. I refuse to lose my hard-gained independence before I _absolutely _have to, so I pushed my chair all the way to the passenger seat. Emmett's Jeep is as inaccessible to a paraplegic as a rock climbing wall is, so my independence ended in the garage.

"May I, honey?" Jasper asks. Nodding, I wrap my arms around Jasper's neck while he hooks his arms through my bony, jean-clad knees. Jazz is sweet like that. He always asks for permission to manhandle me before he does. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Emmett's inner little girl treats me like the rag doll Emmettina never had. However, Emmett has no sense of personal space, so I don't hold a grudge against him.

Jasper carries me bridal style. Without support, my torso crumbles like paper, so I can't piggyback ride on either of them. Together, Dumb, Dumber and I weave our way to the forest. The sun is coming down, lighting up the cloudless, bright blue sky. Light filters through the barren trees and falls upon my Uncles' skin. They sparkle like Bedazzled jackets. It's late February, and frost is still clinging to the ground. It's made it particularly enjoyable to maneuver a wheelchair – because, as is common knowledge, nothing in the world is more enjoyable.

The cold of the air still bites, and I can see my breath as it leaves my pink lips. Rose wrapped me up like a burrito, terrified I'd get cold. I'm wearing a pair of knee-length chocolate suede boots, and a matching jacket. I look like the Michelin man. There's a knit hat covering my head, even though it'll be a miracle if it stays in my head. The wind is blowing so hard Emmett's shirt is clinging to him like it's wet.

To make the cold worse, Jasper is barreling through the forest as though our lives depend on his speed. Ever ballerina-like, Emmett and Jasper's feet crunch the dead, yellow leaves under their feet.

"You'll scare away whatever isn't hibernating," I hiss at them.

"Nessie, Nessie, Nessie," Emmett says with cocky glee. "Leave this to the pros."

Jazz and I snort. Emmett was mauled by a bear nearly a century ago. He is still incapable of meeting a grizzly without an unbearable desire to crush it like to a pulp. At the sight of big game, Emmett gets as excited as a 40-year-old virgin at a whorehouse. The bigger the game is, the greater Emmett's desire to hunt is. That is why my brilliant uncle is donating money to some mad scientists trying to reincarnate wooly mammoths. He wants them to roam the earth so he can _get them off it. _I doubt "bat-shit crazy" is a desirable trait in a professional hunter. I say this last part to Jasper by putting my hand on his cheek.

Jasper laughs.

"You're a treasure," Jasper whispers in my ear, with an adoring grin. Since I have no humility whatsoever, I smile like I agree. People wonder why I have an ego the size of Alaska.

Oblivious to our conversation, Emmett continues trying to prove himself.

"When have I ever failed you, kitten?" he asks, wagging his eyebrows, none the wiser to our exchange.

"You broke one of my Barbies when I was little," I say. "_And _you stepped on my Barbie Dreamhouse. _And _you stuck your big sausage of a finger in the frosting of my birthday cake even though you weren't actually going to eat it…"

"It looked like plastic!" he squawks, so loudly a school of nearby birds flutters out of a nearby canopy like bats out of hell. "I wasn't going to feed my baby girl _plastic_!"

"It's called fondant, genius," I say, rolling my pretty little eyes. "It's _meant _to look less mushy than frosting."

"Whatever. I've never failed you at _hunting,_" he corrects.

I rack my brains for an incident. I'm sure there's _something, _somewhere…but Emmett has always been surprisingly gentle and careful where I'm concerned. Since these are two qualities Emmett seems incapable of replicating elsewhere in his life, I'm actually quite touched.

"While you two little kids argue," Jasper says, "I'm going to go and hunt."

We're nearing the foot of the mountain range, where there's bound to be some game. Jasper tightens his grip on my body, as though he's terrified I'm going to fall. The air around us is thunderous – trees creak -, and for once, I'm glad I can't feel the bite of the air on my round little tush. Unlike I usually do, I squeeze my eyes shut – the air stings my eyes – and I cuddle closer to Jasper's chest.

Eventually, my nose is filled with the stench of a nearby game of elk, even if it is distant. Dumb and Dumber have smelled it, too. The elk are wandering around at the very edge of the mountain, several feet up in the air – and I have a hard time breathing at that altitude.

I'm a T1 paraplegic, meaning that Mr. Black mauled my nerves high enough to paralyze me from the chest down, but stopped before mauling my arms. It means that, in addition to being unable to piss, shit or feel touch, my _endurance _for breathing – if not the capacity itself – is compromised at high altitude, because my intercostal muscles don't always work.

"Nessie, love, we're going to leave you down here," Jasper says gently, even though I know already.

What usually happens is that they chase the game down to wherever I am, and then carry me close to a buck they've taken down – usually by snapping its spine. It's the most horrible kind of irony. I even go as far as to pat the animal with comforting thoughts, which is quite a difficult task. The only way I ever can approach a large animal is if I _know _it can't hurt me. Black did such a number on me that I'm scared shitless at anything bigger than Chihuahua. Hell, I start _whimpering _like a baby at the sight of a Great Dane.

"Do you want me to stay with you, kiddo?" Emmett asks, looking into my face. Neither of them looks like he has _fed _in the near past_. _Both of their eyes are as black as coal, to the point where it's difficult to see their pupils. I touch the circles under Emmett's eyes, and figure this is why they took me hunting. _They _also need to hunt.

"You guys should hunt before scaring the game down here," I say, attempting to sound nonchalant. They both start panicking as though I've suggested dropping out of high school to become a monster-truck driver. However, I want _them _to feel better. There are things about vampirism that I understand better, I think, than my Mom ever did. Neuropathic pain is as chronic as their burning thirst – it never entirely goes away – and as I is the case with me, there are things they just can't _do. _

"Nessie, honey – I don't think that's a good – "

"Come on," I say, the picture of nonchalance. "It's not like Big Foot is going to show up."

I give them a crooked grin to re-assure them of my fearlessness.

They look unconvinced.

"Look," I try again, pointing towards a nice, sturdy, thick branch in one of the barren oaks. "You can just leave me there for a couple of minutes. I'll be fine."

Finally, they both tilt their heads down, nodding slowly in agreement. I'm happy for them.

I'm glad to offer them a little respite from their thirst.

"Seriously," I repeat with a smile. "I'll be fine."

"Alright," Emmett says carefully. Jasper follows as Emmett carries me up into a tree. It's high up enough that Emmett has to lift me á la Lion King blue-assed monkey. Jasper helps him by lifting up my useless legs. The oak's branch is thick enough for me to sit on and still have a couple of inches of leg room. They don't stay in position, and my toes fall in to touch each other like magnets. I test moving around a little. Once I'm sure I'm not going to plummet to my death, I speak.

"See?" I say, sounding like the ray of sunshine the poor fuckers think I am. "I'll be fine."

Jasper's lips are pursed. "If anything happens – "

"I'll scream like a banshee," I assure him.

Uncle Jazz grins.

Emmett nods his approval, and then proceeds to kiss my forehead as though he's a mother abandoning her newborn at an orphanage. Jasper does the same. I bite back the urge to fake-gag. There's no need to make fun of their overprotectiveness when they've taken it down a notch. I watch them disappear like bullets, weaving their path through the thinning trees of the rising mountain. They're laughing, shoving each other as they try to outrun each other. In barely a couple of seconds, I hear the thunderous stampede of the elk moving away from their bantering.

"Dumbasses," I mutter fondly.

Their momentary absence does give me a rare moment of solitude. I drum my fingers against a tree branch, emulating the movements I'd make to play Brahms' Lullaby_. _Privacy is something I rarely ever get, and I intend to enjoy my alone time. I feel a smile spread across my lips. I inhale slowly, letting it permeate my lungs before letting them flow back out. It's a little sigh of content, and I giggle, giddy. Above me, past the dead branches, the sky is streaked in the sun's orange-and-pink hues, similar to the color of my cheeks and eyelids.

_Any humbler, _I think to myself, _and you'll turn into Mother Theresa._

For the sake of something to do rather than for the sake of comfort, I pull my legs apart with my arms like I'm riding a horse. It'll stretch out the abductors, at the very least. One of each leg dangles from each side of the branch. Satisfied, I close my eyes, relishing the cold. I can't feel it, and my upper body is cocooned very nicely. The cold feels _pleasant. _The air blows against my face, turning the hollows of my cheeks pink. I'll look gorgeous tonight.

Even though Dumb & Dumber have probably scared the elk away to other side of the nation, the forest still reeks of dead matter – decomposing bugs and the leaves my uncles crushed. To have something nicer to smell, I grab a lock of my ponytail and press it like a mustache underneath my nose.

Ah. That's _much _better.

"Hmh," I sigh contendedly.

Around me, a twig cracks. My eyes widen. My heart fires up like its met tinder, pulsating wildly. If this is Emmett's idea of a joke, it's _not_ fucking funny_. _

"Emmett?" I ask snappishly, my voice trembling.

No reply comes.

To relax, I decide to try napping. I inhale and exhale the scent of my own thick hair. Slowly, I begin shutting my eyes. My eyelashes flutter against my cheeks. Before they've fully shut, through the holed thicket of my eyelashes, I see a flash of silvery white fur.

My heart accelerates like a firecracker bursting. I can no longer hear it's thumping, but I can _feel _it like Morse code against my breast. Beads of sweat build behind my woolen scarf, sending my body boiling. I drop my other arm for balance, and as my ponytail drops to my side, a stench floods my nostrils. It's the stench of something's god-awful breath. It's the stench of matted, soiled fur – it smells animal hide in a hunter's cabin. Finally, I turn my head to the side. My eyes snap open like a rubber band snapping. Time freezes.

Like a little old lady, I squint at the space where the flash of white vanished. _Don't panic, _I tell myself. I wonder if it's a good time to scream. Twigs continue snapping. I continue leering at the barren trees before me. The hairs in my arms rise as I hear the leaves being stirred by claws. Something joins the hideous cacophony of crunching and snapping twigs.

It's the sound of my jagged breathing, coming in bursts out of my mouth and nose.

I consider my options. There aren't many. I can't see the mass of white-and-gray fur. It _can't be _Jacob Black. He doesn't know where I am. His fur is russet colored. It can't be Jacob Black. He can't hurt me anymore. My hands start to tremble, and I grab the tree branch. If my hands aren't in fighting order, then nothing in my body is.

_Don't panic. _Whatever it is, I'm protected from it here. The werewolves can't be taller than a fully erect Emmett. I crane my neck back, to check for the mass of fur. There's nothing there. I can't turn any further without losing my precarious balance.

_Don't panic, _I tell myself. _You're safe in the trees. There are few things out there taller than Emmett. _

The only threat up here in this branch is my own, non-existent balance. I probably can't bruise myself if I fall but – what then? Even at full speed, using all of my arms strength, the dead weight of my body holds me back. I can barely outrun a squirrel.

Besides me, something grunts.

I scream_. _It's the guttural sound of undiluted panic.

The speckled gold-and-green hues of my eyes meet two pure black ones. There is a glint of light in its eyes. Even dry-mouthed and trembling, I know this _thing _is _thinking, _and not like an _animal. _A pale pink scar runs across its cheek. I can smell its breath putrid breath. I can see its yellowing fangs, feel them ghosting against the peach of my cheeks. Two or three of them are missing. When our eyes meet, I know this is no _ordinary _animal.

"Jasper," I croak. "Emmett."

I repeat the names. Blood is pooling in my ears. The fluttering of my pulse is drowning out all other noises. I can only hope the sounds I've emitted louder.

I come to face with a bear whose head, twice the size of mine, is in dangerously close proximity. The bear's ears are flattened on top of its silvery head. It tilts head, inching it closer towards me. The bear's moistened snout touches my pert little nose. His moist snout drags along the bridge of my nose, living a slippery, sticky trail behind it.

The scream catches in my throat. My entire body is paralyzed in fear.

Pushing my fear back, I let out a massive, ear-shattering scream, so high-in pitch I sound like a whistle.

The animal besides me lets out a deep, throaty _growl. _Tears pool in my eyes. The hairs on my neck rise coming into contact with the bark of the tree.

A bite is coming – the bear's mouth is falling open, revealing toothless gums, and it's ham-sized fist is in the air….

With a trembling fist, I unfold my arm, slamming it against the bear's shoulder.

The force of my own hit makes me lose my balance. I can't even see if my blow had the desired effect. Like a slinky falling across a staircase, my body plummets to the ground.

I only feel my head hit the ground. My chin slams against my sternum. It's as though my organs are being jostled inside my torso. The sounds are muffled by the sound of the bear _galloping, _like a goddamned horse, into the distance.

"Jasper!" I screech. My voice is hoarse, marred by the sound of my fear. "Emmett!"

Weakly, I try to raise my torso with my arms. The world spinning on its axis. Leaning on one arm, breathing heavily, I manage to disentangle my dead legs. Because of my stupid leg-spreading stunt, my left leg landed first, inside of the foot twisted underneath my right knee. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. If the blow had any impact, I can barely feel it.

"Baby, what happened?" one of them demands frantically. It's Emmett. Their bodies can't tremble, but their voices are shaking like the leaves fluttering around us. I feel him drag my head into his lap. They're both kneeling besides me. Jasper is checking the side of my body for injuries.

"Nessie, what happened?"

Through my tears, I say like a raging, unstoppable moron: "Big foot came."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>

If you've made it this far, thank you! Your reviews are read, replied to and very much appreciated.

A big, heartfelt thank you to Nise7465! She has kindly read over last chapter and this one. Thanks to her work, some important details about living with Nessie's disability (specifically speaking, the use of a catheter) have been included. You can find them if you scroll down.

Thanks, everyone!


	3. Absent Sense of Self-Preservation

This chapter has a more explicit description of Nessie's chair. There's a picture of it on my profile.

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><p><strong>The Absent Sense of Self-Preservation<strong>

"Big foot was here."

Uncle Jazz squints at me as though he's worried I suffered irreparable brain damage.

"Big foot?" Emmett repeats slowly.

For the second time that day, both of my uncles look at me as though I've finally gone crazy. It's not a completely far-fetched theory; I'm awfully upbeat for a motherless, paraplegic 16-year-old. I have the internal monologue of a crazy old bat. I toy with the affections of an 18-year-old boy I have no intention of dating, whatsoever. I just made a bear anthropomorphous , even considering him my intellectual equal for a good five minutes. I think of myself as a Little Mermaid look-alike physically regularly comparing my personality to that of her arch-nemesis, a fat octopus.

Unfortunately for all involved, I'm _not _clinically insane.

Emmett touches his beefy hand to my forehead, as if checking for a fever. Jasper continues to prod along my body. It's not going to respond to his touch, but perhaps something _is _swelling.

"There was a big ass bear," I say. In my head, I sound angry. In reality, I sound like a newborn kitten. Tears are still streaming down my cheeks, and I sniff. Even though I'm in the comfort of both their arms, I'm still trembling.

"Oh, pipsqueak," Emmett says in a gentle voice. He begins stroking my hair.

"Sweetheart, bears are nothing to be afraid of," Jasper corroborates softly, stopping his ministrations.

These are both men that are privy to the fact that I've harbored nightmares about wolves since I was old enough to dream. I know that while I dream of being hurt by Jacob Black, they fantasize about hurting him the way he hurt has spent countless nights calming me down in the dead of the night, making me feel engulfed by the safety of our family's love. Emmett took the more hard-core approach of taking me to Arizona to prove to me he could crush a coyote like a bag of chips. To this day, I'm still not sure that was for the benefit of his ego or of my mental safety.

Far in the distance is the _whooshing _sound of several vampires running. Alice must've seen something.

"It wasn't Winnie-the-fucking-Pooh," I try to snarl. It's difficult to sound angry, though, as I'm blinded by the acidity of my tears. There's a ripping sound coming from the edge of my throat as I gasp for breath. In spite of this, I lift my hand to touch Jasper's cheek, then that of Emmett. The incident repeats in my head – the _scrutiny _of his stare, his height, and even the shape of his snout weren't _normal. _

Jasper does a double take. Emmett tightens his grip on my body. Dumb and Dumber exchange looks. I will myself to stop sobbing, because the muffled cries are making it even harder for me to listen in to their conversation. Nobody ever tells me anything – so I have to dig up the information myself. I presume they are either wondering if I can be trusted – I am scared _shitless _of Great Danes - or if I should be told about the implications of what I just told them. Perhaps they're wondering how to avoid my Dad's wrath at the fact that a hair was harmed on his little girl's head.

"The most important thing right now is for you to head home and be checked up on," Jasper says with firm gentleness. Emmett nods. I roll my eyes.

"I don't feel any pain," I say. Immediately, of course, I realize that means nothing, so I amend it by adding, "No throbbing in the head – nada."

"Oh, baby girl," Emmett mumbles.

He continues flattening back my hair like I'm an unkempt Chihuahua. Fear gives way to anger, but I know it's unjustified. Neither of them believes I can gauge the state of my own body. It's not a reaction I blame them for. If there _is _some painful stimulus that I can't detect immediately – a broken bone, an abrasion - pain signals will flare up my spine. My body _will _react in the form of a bone-crushing headache and high blood pressure. It is one lovely side-effect of being wheelchair-bound, known as Autonomic Dysreflexia.

"What the _hell _happened?" Daddy demands – I can hear him from a distance, the loud, furious ring of his voice approaching. Rosalie's right on his heels, her eyes wide with shock and fear. Alice is right behind them. Her eyes are glazing over as she searches the future. Daddy squats down beside me, tilting my chin up as if looking for injuries. He looks sick with panic.

"Nothing," I mumble immediately in a hoarse voice. Tears are still steamrolling down my cheeks, and I'm still shaking in Emmett's arms. "There was a bear."

Like my Uncles', Daddy's mind flashes back to the hundreds of times I've woken up after screaming my throat raw, in fear of Jacob Black _mauling me. _ In his head, I probably look four physically, not sixteen. Rose moves to the side opposite his. She repeats Jasper's motions, looking for bruises. Firmly, Rose presses her fingers to my right side. Finding no injuries, Rose begins looking at my back. Her fingers ghost over my battered back in search of an injury. Finding none, Rose breathes a momentary sigh of relief.

"We should still check for internal bleeding," Daddy says, in response to a thought of Rose's.

"Holy mother of Jesus," I mumble under my breath, sniffling. It's funny that I take the lord's name in vain now, post Catholic school, more than ever. "I said I was _fine._"

"I'd rather have Carlisle make sure before we assume anything," Daddy says quietly. Very gently, careful not to jostle me – although I doubt I hurt myself – he lifts me into his arms, supporting the crook of my neck. Beside him, Rose takes my hand. Daddy and Aunt Rose are walking at a snail pace because they don't want to jar me. I find it a bit ridiculous – my spine can't get any more fucked than it already is. I crane my neck up to look at Alice. Gently but firmly, Daddy pushes me back down.

"What happened?" I demand of Alice. Out of everyone, Alice is the most likely to recognize that I'm no longer a baby, mentally or physically. She stops future-searching. Her eyes are the color of ocher as they focus on my face.

"I saw you fall," she says simply. Of course, Alice didn't see _me _fall, or plummet to the ground. Rather, she saw the family fussing over me after I did. I'm a blind spot in Alice's sight, one that she's become increasingly adept at seeing past. For a split second, Alice looks like she wants to elaborate. Instead, she stops talking.

"Did you see the bear?" I demand intensely, craning my neck up. Daddy pushes it back down. We're close to the car. Rose rushes ahead to open the door. Together, she and Daddy pretend to be paramedics as they slip me into the back of the Jeep. Rose is stroking my hair, wordlessly caressing my face with her other hand to ensure it hasn't been hurt. Otherwise, she looks weak with relief.

"You're going to be fine," she coos, more for her sake than mine.

"I did_ not_ hurt myself," I tell her, enunciating each word carefully. My head isn't even throbbing.

Outside, the wind is picking up speed, whipping the glass panes of Emmett's Jeep. Neither he nor Jasper is moving, showing no intention of getting into the car. Daddy uses the frigid air as a pretense to shut the car door. The lips of the adults are moving nearly imperceptibly as they converse in low whispers.

Fear flares up inside me like flames in the presence of gas.

"They're not going to _look_ for that thing, are they?" I demand of Rose, my voice quivering. Using my arms, I sit up. She sighs, pulling me into her lap like I'm a little girl. I wish I could kick the glass window to get their attention. All of their eyes skirted to me briefly before returning to the hushed conversation.

"Don't worry about it, Nessie," she pleads. "What's important is getting you home."

"Aunt Rose," I beg, tears slipping freshly out of my eyes. "Rose, please, I don't want them to get hurt."

"They're not going to fight the bear, sweetheart," Rose says. I stare at her incredulously. _Does she not know her own husband_? I voice this concern out loud. In spite of the tense situation, a couple of grins light up my family's features, including Emmett's. The aforementioned oaf taps on the glass, and shakes his head with cocky glee. If he were a little less self-assured, though, I'd be less frightened. "I promise we won't fight anything, Nessie boo," he says.

I glower at him, pouring my lack of trust into the curve of my lips.

"They're just going to try to determine where it came from. Your Daddy -" I know she's worried about my well-being because she referred to my father in that capacity "- and I are taking you to the hospital so Granddaddy can take care of you."

"So it's a real threat?" I ask, having my worst fears confirmed. Suddenly, I feel like I had an inordinately heavy lunch. I'm assaulted by a horrible desire to vomit. My fingers wrap around Rosalie's shirt, clinging to it. I tilt my head towards the car, where Emmett, Jasper and Alice look ready to take off. Silently, I plead with my eyes for them not to go. _Don't go, _I beg, tears streaming down my cheeks. Daddy turns to look at me sympathetically.

"No, it's not a threat, my darling," Aunt Rose replies with a coo, stroking my hair. "We're just making sure that it isn't dangerous."

"Don't worry about them, sweetheart," Daddy says. Within seconds, he's in the passenger seat, ready to take off. "Right now, we need to get you an MRI scan, is all."

You know, however, that shit is going to hit the fan if and when Rosalie Hale and Edward Cullen agree with each other. That, and Rosalie Hale calling Edward Cullen "Daddy." That's fucked up shit, that is.

* * *

><p>About 20 minutes later, Daddy, Rose and I are pulling up in the handicapped parking spot at the County Hospital, where Granddaddy has risen through the ranks at unheard of speed. In spite of the fact that he's the Head of Neurology, he's waiting for us outside, his handsome face fraught with concern. Rose helps me (code for "lifts me") into the chair. With one of her hands, she's shielding me from the wind as though it poses any big threat to my health or safety. I slap her hand away.<p>

"I can push myself, you know," I tell her testily, sniffling my own snot. With a sigh, she drops the handles. Before I can move, though, Carlisle squats in front of me, cupping my cheek in his hands.

"Your son thinks I need an MRI scan," I inform him moodily. "And I don't."

"What happened?" Carlisle asks, alternating between looking at the three of us.

"Nothing," I say immediately in deadpan.

At the same time, Daddy and Rose say –

"She fell seven feet from a tree."

"She was mauled by a bear."

"Pft," I say, shaking my wrist nonchalantly.

Joining the club, Granddaddy looks at me like I've finally lost my already questionable sanity. In a hushed tone, he asks for the story from the adults, because of course, _I _wasn't its protagonist. The oh-so-dramatic phrases, "hit her head", "concussion" "mauled by a bear" and "plummeted to the ground" are used to narrate a tale I would've told less colorfully.

"I wasn't _mauled by a bear,_" I point out. "Do I look like I've been mauled?"

My grandfather purses his lips as though he's seriously considering his answer. My mouth falls open comically, and I let out a series of indignant "Ah" "Ey" "Oy"s. I tilt my head up towards the side mirror, to ensure I look unharmed. I don't. My face is bright red. The tears have left tracks around my cheeks and warmed them. Residual tears cling to my eyelashes like morning dew to grass. My dark, mahogany hair looks like a bird's nest on top of my head. Inside the red-rimmed whites of my eyes, my eyes look even more intensely green. Carlisle squats down beside me, brushing his lips against my forehead. They linger there a little too long – it's his sneaky way of checking for a fever.

Contrary to popular belief, I'm _not _going to keel over and die. Annoyed, I nudge Carlisle with the edge of one of the chair's footrests. Instinctively, Carlisle steps aside to give me space to roll up the wheelchair ramp. The chair squeaks as the rubber of the wheels meets water. This week's sunny weather has given heed to a slight sprinkle of rain. Luckily, it hasn't frozen over – or I wouldn't be able to move around myself. I can enjoy pushing myself in the accessible paradise that is the hospital, with nicely slanted ramps and wide turns. The only design flaw is the distance from the handicapped parking spots to the ER. I don't mind, though. I love hospitals, as they're the only truly accessible architectural feats under the sun. By contrast, the front door at St. Marge's is virtually impossible to open. It's so easy to move around in the hospital I feel smug bursts of self-satisfaction at every turn. Daddy, Carlisle and Rose follow.

"Go into Exam Room 3, love," Carlisle says. My grandfather turns to look at a nurse to explain he'll be examining me personally. The nurse's heartbeat picks up to the pace of mine, and her reply to his words is sultry. Ew. _That _will cause irreparable brain damage.

While conversing with _his _fan-girl, Carlisle urges me forward, past two or three people sitting down as they wait for their turns in the ER. None of it looks _urgent. _There are two children sitting down with bad cases of the flu, clinging to their mother. I give the little boy a friendly smile, waving at him as I roll past.

"Mommy, why is she in that thing?"

His mother tumbles through whispers trying to explain that I can't walk for some reason. As explanations to little kids go, it's not half-bad. I've heard some irritating shit over the years. I pay it no mind.

I enter Exam Room 3. Rose and Daddy are right behind me. Wordlessly, Daddy presses a button on the table and it lowers down. I swing out of the chair onto the table. Rosalie, distraught, looks like she wants to help me, but doesn't. I start to drum my fingers against the crinkly paper. Rosalie starts fidgeting with a diamond-studded band on her ring finger, a present from Emmett. By contrast, Daddy isn't moving, still as a statue.

Every time I so much as sneeze, Rose panics and Daddy begins to wallow in self-guilt and a sense of failure. I can tell by the expression on their faces something similar is happening. Daddy's planning my funeral and his ensuing century of self-imposed misery, and Rose is imagining my brain swelling inside my skull and pouring out of my eyeballs.

Jesus.

"This is silly," I say out loud. I begin clucking my tongue. Rose is too worried to look like she wants to strangle me, as she usually does when I do that. Together with the sound of my fingers tapping the crinkly paper, my tongue-clucking must be annoying the undead hell out of them.

The statue that is Daddy comes back to life. His eyes suddenly pulsate with life, and he turns towards me, putting my head against his thigh. Wordlessly, he unties the ribbon in the back of my hair and begins to comb his fingers through it. Twigs and leaves are fished out of it and land in a trash-can to the side. Over the years, Daddy has become surprisingly adept at styling my hair. By the time Carlisle comes back, my hair looks like it did this morning.

"Darling, can you show me how you fell down?" is the first thing he asks. Daddy leaves my side to stand in the corner, hands in his pockets. If not for the way his eyes are fraught with paternal concern, he looks ridiculously 17, hair mussed and hands in baggy jeans.

Grudgingly, I put my hand to Carlisle's cheek, omitting my attempt to punch an 8-foot bear in the shoulder. Instead I just show him as the forest flashes past my eyes in slow motion. My torso hits the ground first. My head and my legs tumble after it.

"Nessie, love, it's very serious when you hit your torso," he scolds, but being a doting grandfather, he doesn't sound mad. As if in response to that, he turns to fold up the chair and stick it in a corner.

I groan loudly. Clearly, we're not leaving any time soon.

Injuries at the T1 level are very rare, if only because the spine is encased by the ribcage that high up. During my first year of life, I had to wear a back brace to stabilize my thorax, because Black turned it into a nest of twigs. "I'm going to see how serious this concussion is, and then we'll see about the rest of your body."

"It wasn't a concussion," I mumble.

With flair, Carlisle takes a little black flash light out of his white lab coat. He flashes one of the little white lights in my right eye, and asks me to follow it. "Such beautiful eyes," he says to himself as he begins assailing my left eye. I roll them. Flattered, however, I smile with pleasure.

Carlisle asks me to lie back down. I drop down unceremoniously, while Daddy lifts my legs onto the examination table.

In the next thirty minutes, I'm stripped down as Carlisle bends, touches and prods my torso and legs. In spite of Rose's loving care, my leg muscles do look withered. They look like they ought to be in the body of a 10-year-old, not a 16-year-old. I try not to look at them, instead focusing on Carlisle's face.

There are yellowing bruises dotting my calves and thighs. Daddy lets out a horrified breath.

"I bruise all the time," I tell them breezily.

The blood circulation to my torso and lower limbs has been hampered from lack of movement, therapy notwithstanding. Consequently, I bruise like a peach, from slamming my legs into the legs of cafeteria tables, chairs, heavy metal doors as I try to fling them open, among other things.

I almost laugh at their horrified expressions. All three of them gape at me like I've lost my mind. "For all we know, none of these came from the tree incident."

Carlisle looks unconvinced. Daddy's looking at me with wonderment, with an expression I can only described as fondly amused irritation, and a deep longing. I recognize it as his "your mother reincarnate" expression. Rose is gnawing down on her lip, looking like she wants to cry.

"Look," I say impatiently, gesturing in the general direction of the bruises. "They're turning _yellow. _These are old bruises. There's no need to _freak_."

"Renesmee…" Carlisle admonishes gently. I smile sheepishly at him, flashing my dimples. Simultaneously, I shrug my shoulders. I can't _feel _bruising, I'm inclined to point out. The "Mommy Reincarnate" expression hasn't left my father's face, but Carlisle and Rose look mollified.

"I'm going to turn you around, Nessie," he says. In the blink of an eye, I'm flopped onto my belly, straining my neck to see what the fuss is about.

Carlisle sucks in a breath. He frowns as he detects what I presume are fresh contusions. I crane my neck back to try and catch a glimpse. I see nothing. Curious, I stretch out my arm, feeling the bony flesh of my back. I find Carlisle's fingers – he chuckles, amused, as I flick them off – to feel a hotter, tender patch of skin.

Daddy lets out a moan of pain. "You've bruised your pelvic region," he tells me.

"It's nothing major, son," Carlisle assures him, forgetting to whom he is speaking.

My father lives in a constant state of paranoia. Daddy's been known to assume I was falling ill with the swine flu because I _sneezed. _Once, he assumed I'd been kidnapped because I didn't answer my phone. As we speak, he's probably assuming the worst - like the bruises are signs of my eminent death by falling. My father makes a hypochondriac with OCD look sane – like that Giraffe in Madagascar.

Dad glares at me.

"It's just a contusion. There doesn't seem to be any internal bleeding. We can treat it with TENS stimuli and a strong anti-inflammatory."

Carlisle continues running his fingers up the contours of the bones in my back. As I said, he finds nothing worth panicking over.

Within minutes, he's helping me sit up. Propped up by my arms, legs dangling, I smile smugly at Rose and Daddy.

"See, Daddy?" I pipe up smugly. _There's nothing wrong with me._

"I wouldn't say _that,_" he says. His voice battles an infliction of amusement and irritation. "You have absolutely no sense of self-preservation."

I ignore Daddy. "Are we done?" I ask eagerly.

As we speak, Carlisle unfolds the chair from the corner. I grab my jeans from where Rose folded them on a corner, ready to get dressed – until Carlisle kills my buzz in cold blood. He squats down and takes out a scratchy hospital gown the color of mint from a cabinet underneath the examination table.

"I'd still like to run an MRI scan," Carlisle explains. A splutter of indignation escapes my lips almost of its own accord. Didn't he _just _say everything's fine?

"How long is _that _going to take?" I ask, irritable. "I need to be somewhere tonight."

My father snorts. "The only place _you _need to be in tonight is your bed."

"Daddy," I plead. _I need a distraction, badly. _The unspoken fact of the matter is that I'm more scared than hurt. _I'm going to have nightmares, _I think. I catch my reflection in a small, raised window at the top of the exam room. My gold-speckled green eyes are wide; the "doe-like eyes" mumbo-jumbo coming into play without me even trying. I can see his resolve crumbling. For all the strength of the Victorian stick up his ass, Dad does _want _me to have fun every now and then.

I turn to Carlisle. "If the MRI comes out fine, can I go to this thing?" I ask him pleadingly. This time, I do bat my eyelashes a little and raise the pitch of my voice. With narrowed eyes, Dad gives me the evil eye.

Carlisle hesitates before answering. If I'd been four, he would've caved immediately.

"I don't see a problem with you going out, so long as long as you don't strain yourself and come home early."

_Halleh-fucking-llujah. _I wonder how such a reasonable man could be at the helm of the Adams (Cullen) Family. It's like their brains are incapable of logic.

"I'll just put these on," I say, snatching my jeans and slipping them on quickly. Even at the fastest speed attained by my vampire-like arms, it takes me a couple of minutes to slip into jeans, socks and a long-sleeves t-shirt. I have to wriggle like a fish flapping in water to pull them up past my ass.

"I'd rather not parade around in a flimsy hospital gown," I explain. The minty color of the gown is going to make my pallor ghostly, and I'm wearing a bra the color of a cherry. It's been embarrassing enough to have my grandfather and my Victorian-aged father see it – I don't need for an entire hospital to follow their lead.

Done and dressed, I swivel out of the examination table and into the chair. Dad glowers at his own father, his expression stiff and reeking of betrayal. I bite back the urge to laugh at him as he holds the door open.

Out in the triage desk, the nurse waves flirtatiously at my grandfather, ignoring his three children are there. Luckily, Carlisle pretends to be obtuse. Above the nurse's head, a mechanical clock is ticking. I glance at the clock. It's 7:30. With a little bit of luck, I'll be out of here by 9:00.

The clock reminds me of something urgent. I drag in a breath of cold air, and spin the chair towards Rose. The comment is intended for my grandfather's benefit – but it's embarrassing. It's been five hours since I went through my own lovely version of urinating. I suffer from a spastic bladder, which means I'm at a high risk of peeing in my pants. The opposite – a flaccid bladder – is at a higher risk of rupturing _but _won't easily soil its owner. I am vain enough to think that rupturing my bladder seems far more palatable than peeing in my pants. I don't want it to happen inside the MRI machine, as much as I despise the thing.

"I need to, erm – _pee,_" I mumble elegantly.

"Did you bring a catheter?" Carlisle asks, as though we're talking about the weather and not my urethra. I turn scarlet. Daddy's standing nearby, and this is almost as embarrassing as talking about menstruation in his presence. It doesn't help that he was raised in the most sexually repressive environment in human history.

"Yeah," I say sardonically, without speaking a beat. "It's in the pocket of my jeans."

Carlisle's brow is furrowed in confusion. For a second, he squints at my buttocks, as if expecting one of them to be raised by a catheter's package. He's always been immune to any form of sarcasm from me. I think it's 'cause he's deluded himself into thinking I'll be four until the end of time. Granddaddy lives a content existence pretending that my breasts never grew in and I still listen to everything my father says.

"No, Grandpa, I didn't bring a catheter," I say finally in deadpan, before he reaches the inevitable conclusion that there is no catheter to be found.

Carlisle nods, clearly at ease with the pleasant topic of my bladder. "There should be an intermittent one in the nurse's station in the 4th floor," he offers, in that bizarre detached kindness typical of doctors. "I'll go get it."

My mouth falls open in horror, as though as he's suggested committing murder on my behalf.

"I can do it," I cough out through my shame. I'm equal parts offended at being babied, _and _at having my spastic bladder discussed as casually as Nana's springtime tulips. "Rose, dear?"

I spin the chair around. Rose's heels click as she follows behind me.

"I'll see you in Block A," Rose sighs, stalking after me. Block A is where all the high-tech equipment is, from the MRI machine to the radiology equipment. We both happen to be well-acquainted with both, as my grandfather uses them regularly to treat secondary symptoms to my broken spine. I don't have to turn around to see Daddy and Carlisle disappear into the mazes of passageways leading to Block A.

Once we reach the elevators, I back up the chair against the elevator wall. Rose follows after me. In a rare accessibility faux-pas, the elevator's buttons are raised so high I can't _reach _the damn thing. I wait for Rose to enter and press the little button before we are raised up to the fourth floor.

"I'm sorry," I mumble through my teeth.

"Whatever for?" Rose sounds genuinely confused. Sheepishly, I gesture in the general direction of my lap, where my bursting bladder would be urging its owner to pee. As is best for the wheelchair-bound, I follow tight schedules where shitting and pissing are concerned.

Rose mulls over my words for a couple of minutes, remaining expressionless. People accuse my Aunt of being blunt, but she isn't needlessly so. Finally, she opens her pretty, plump mouth.

"If you're apologizing for being irresponsible and _stupid _about your health, then I accept your apology." Rose gives me a sideways glance, her dainty nose turned up with contempt. Then she squats down, kissing me on the cheek. "If you're apologizing for the need to go to the bathroom, then I should apologize to _you. _I like to think I raised you to not feel ashamed about yourself."

She tucks in a strand of way-ward hair behind my ear, stroking my cheekbone with her thumb.

Minutes later, with the most beautiful woman in upstate New York behind me, I ask a passing nurse if she has an intermittent catheter stored somewhere. She recognizes me as a Cullen, and acquiesces kindly. The hollows of my cheeks pool with blood as the nurse hands me an intermittent catheter in its plastic packaging. Her expression, however, is one of kindness. Judging by her age, however, the woman has probably emptied more bedpans than I have used a catheter to relieve myself.

My embarrassment is dumb. I thank her sheepishly.

With Rose on my tail, I tuck the catheter in between the wheels of my chair and one of my limp legs. There's an accessible bathroom in the Reception area, meaning that she and I will have to exit the ER and go out into the drizzle. For all its ramps and soft turns, the hospital is sorely lacking in accessible bathrooms.

The two little boys in the waiting room have vanished.

The booming albeit rough voice of an old man reaches us all the way in the elevator. There is a tuft of salty white hair on his pale, sagging skin. Even with a back as crooked as a question mark, he must've been tall in his youth. I recognize him as Buzz Hemlich's grandfather. I've never been introduced to him in that capacity, but there _are _traces of my aspiring lover in the sharpness of his nose and the shape of his jaw. His two beady, black eyes are nothing like his grandson's, and yet they are the same shape.

"That's Buzz's grandpa," I tell Rose, as I push myself across the ER.

Rose lets out a giggle, sounding more like a Justin Bieber aficionada than a century-old vampire. There is nothing more thrilling in Rose's life than Buzz's undying, goofy love. I don't have to look up to see she's glowing, as she thinks Buzz is a good prospect. He "comes from a long line of Yale graduates, he's a linebacker and he comes from a solid fortune." His family owns a considerable amount of stock with Domino's Pizza. I personally find nothing admirable in making money by fattening the nation by selling globs of fat slapped onto a slice of sugary flour, but Rose does. Whenever boys are mentioned, she morphs into the lovechild of Cupid and Mrs. Bennett from _Pride and Prejudice_. I bet she's already naming my children with Buzz, oblivious to the fact that I find tripe sausage more appealing than the one hanging down Buzz's pants.

"Has he introduced you to him?" Rose says in a flustered whisper. By her tone, you'd think she holds an introduction to Buzz's family in the same esteem as getting accepted into college. Her voice drips with pride. Typically disdainful of the elderly, Rosalie is flashing a luminescent smile in my future grandfather-in-law's direction.

"You should go say hi," Rose says, virtually rolling on the balls of her feet. I'm disinclined to agree – there's an unused _catheter _in between my legs, I'm barefoot, and…There's no need to add tinder to the fire of Buzz's affections.

My future in-law is retelling some kind of story to Carlisle's groupie. His r's are rough, his w's are v's and he accents his vowels oddly, but his English itself is flawless. What's making it difficult to understand him is the way he wheezes. It's as if the run from his car to the ER has left him breathless.

Suddenly, Rose shoves the chair. The force of her push is enough to send me barreling in his general direction. I cross - or rather the chair crosses - the considerable distance between the elevators and the triage desk without lifting one arm. I react quickly enough to regain control of the chair, propelling it backwards before crashing against his bony knees. Even crooked and withered with age, the man is tall.

"into my carr, ven - eet dos not mather, I haf in-zoo-rrance - "

The man stops. He sniffs the air as though he can physically _smell _the harsh acidic scent of the urine bursting in my bladder, and is disgusted by it. I look up to meet his stare. It's usually demeaning to have to look up to converse, but this is downright _humiliating. _ He squints at me with his dark, beady eyes. There is a moment of silence as his eyes re-focus, and I find myself under the force of his stare. From the crown of my mahogany hair, past my golden-speckled emerald eyes, his eyes scrutinize me. They linger on my useless legs, where they look even punier without shoes.

"Sorry," I mumble.

Under shame, my skin prickles, heating up under his stare. Slowly, I back up the chair, with the pretense of maneuvering around him. When I propel the chair forward, though, I make an effort to slam one of the chair's wheels against his knees. The spinners on it are made of titanium.

He growls, before muttering something under his breath. It's in a foreign language, but I can tell it's nothing pleasant. Now that I'm nearly underneath the vent that it his mouth, I can smell his breath.

It's absolutely putrid.

* * *

><p>Tears building, I spin into the maze of hallways leading away from the ER – and Buzz's grandfather - at a superhuman speed. Underneath me, the chair wheels start to screech under the pressure of moving so quickly. The titanium frame begins to tumble from side to side like a rocking boat being shoved everywhere by a current.<p>

"Damn it," I spit.

Irritably, I loosen my grip on the chair wheels. Chugging down on my lips, I suck in a breath, waiting for the chair to stabilize. It's an ultra-lightweight wheelchair, a compact model and a low back meant to increase the user's agility. It's all worth shit where I'm concerned. The damn chair can't move as fast as I can get it to move. The friction of the wheels against the ground, if I move too quickly, can burn the wheels' rubber. Friction can also cause enough force for me to slam out of the chair, with my body ricocheting like a rock off a catapult.

For a moment, I consider slamming the breaks on the chair, but I fear the sudden stop will send me flying. Instead, I re-grip onto the chair wheels and push them in the opposite direction. Luckily, nobody is watching my hands propel the spinning wheels backwards. In human hands, that would've caused blisters. I have my father's hands - and artists' hands - and I'm vein enough to want to keep the delicate knuckles and lengthy fingers fully on display. I don't wear finger-less gloves. I dismiss the unpleasant thought that I may need to start pretty quickly, unless I start to move the chair around as a human would.

Accident averted, I slow down. It's not like the speed-demon stunt gave me much of a head start on Rosalie. Behind me, the staccato of her heels announces her presence, like a goddamned bell on a cat. Since I can't run from her, I decide to confront her.

Far too quickly, I spin my metal prison around with such force the chair tumbles on its axis. For a second, I fear it's going to fall sideways and I'm going to spill out of it like a wave. I freeze, shutting my eyes tightly ready for a fall. When it doesn't come, I open my eyes. With a new surge of strength, I cut the distance between Rose and I with three powerful strides. The closer I move to her, the more the expression of sweet concern vanished. By the time I'm so close to her my knees are touching her shins, Rosalie looks like I have. gotten. food. in. her. hair.

"Don't ever manhandle me like that again, Rosalie."

My voice is low, both in pitch and tone, and its cracking. Tears are burning my eyes as they threaten to spill. Not a second passes before they do spill out of my eyes, heating up my already boiling cheeks. I'm always carried places where I don't want to go because Black took away my ability to move independently. For all its flaws, without the chair, I can't move. It's the source of my sense of agency. Even that, like my body, isn't fully mine to control. Rosalie just rubbed that aggressively in my face, literally shoving me into the most humiliating encounter of my entire life. Frustration bubbles hotly into tears that spill out of my eyes. I bite back a sob, sticking a fist in my mouth.

"Don't you _dare _blame me for how that old bastard - "

"I'm NOT!" I yell. I punctuate by statement with a screech of rage.

I'm stared at often. It's a fact of life, living in the chair. I split people into two basic types: those that stare, and those that try not to. After years of watching parents deal with their children's pointing, I blame the staring on society's inept parents. People are morbidly curious about wheelchairs, because they don't see them. Going out in the chair is hard. If and when they the public sees wheelchairs, they're treated as a sign of illness or weakness.

Rosalie likes to play dumb pretend I'm stared at for the same reasons she is. "Of course people stare at you," she'll coo, as if it's the most self-evident thing in the world. "You're gorgeous." It's not a stupid theory. I've found that people somehow associate my beauty and the chair. Almost invariably, the whispered line goes like: "Such a beautiful girl. It's such a pity she's disabled," or the alternative, "She's so beautiful for a handicap." There's a High School variation, too. "I'd tap Cullen – that bitch is fuckhot - but I'm not sure I'm into crippled pussy." People without a sense of personal space will come up and caress me like I'm a porcelain doll on display, or play with my hair like I'm the latest toy issued by Barbie. I'm looked at with apprehension. Sometimes, I'm looked at with pity.

Less than five minutes ago, for the first time in 16 years, I was looked at with disgust.


	4. Manifestation of Sadness

**The Manifestation of Sadness **

I wake up the following morning feeling like I may as well _have _drunk my weight in beer at a party. Light is streaming through the window, past my pink drapes, and flooding by bedroom. It hurts my eyes as though I'm a vampire of the Anne Rice variety. Groaning, I throw one arm on top of my head to shield it from the light. My eyes sting, my face feels puffy, and I have a throbbing headache. I decide not to share that last tidbit of information with the cast of _Les Mis _that is otherwise known as my family. Next thing I'll know, Carlisle will be stuffing pressure-lowering drugs in my system in an attempt to ward off Autonomic Dysreflexia. Sluggishly, I switch positions – first turning my leg and then grabbing on to the edge of the bed opposite me - to flop onto my belly, with an arm shielding me from the light.

I doze off for a little longer.

Daddy's panic attack – surprise, surprise – proved unfounded. The MRI showed that there was nothing (clinically) wrong with my brain, excepting the fact that it doesn't receive signals from half of my body. He, Rose and I returned home in a terse silence. I was too tired to give a shit, and too angry at the two of them for subjecting me to an unnecessary medical procedure. Since Rose was acting like an Ice Queen after our hallway spat, it was Nana that tucked me in. I let her fuss over me to her heart's content. Once I finished with the catheter, Nana helped me put on my pajamas before stretching out my lower limbs for me. I passed out midway through knee flexion exercises, before being lovingly tucked in.

This morning, I find my anger has been slightly muted. It may have to do with the fact that I'm still not fully awake.

The chair is stationed near my bed at a strange angle. I drag it closer towards me. Locking the brakes, I drag my body into it. I like to live on the edge by _not _locking the brakes – ha, ha, ha – but this is what a hangover must feel like and I don't want to fall on my ass. Luckily, the space of my bedroom is cleared of any obstacles and I don't have to be on my proverbial toes. Out in the world, I have to maneuver the chair like Formula 1 driver, which requires full use of my (currently) faulty mental faculties. I make it easily into the bathroom, with its lowered sink, many grab bars and full-body mirror. I groan in horror as I see my reflection in the latter.

I look like a motherfucking troll doll from the 1980s.

Whining irritably, I avoid my reflection as I chug down some water and sprinkle more on my red, puffy face. Why I'm whining is beyond me; there aren't any indulgent adults nearby to humor my tantrum. Pouting, I wash my hands thoroughly, and I take out a different catheter – a Speedicath - from where it's kept in one of the drawers. Back at home, I try to climb out of the chair as much as possible when doing _this_. The smell of urine _does _cling to the chair. As much as everyone in the house is aware of the crudest reality of paraplegia, I don't want the reminder to literally _cling _to the chair. On the toilet, I use the grips to pull myself up and lower my pajama pants, careful to keep them above my knees. There's a little table, with a mirror and antibacterial soap, next to the grips in the bathroom; I use it to open up the catheter – packaged, it looks like a syringe. I prop up the mirror in between my thighs using my panties and lead the rubber length into my urethra. The pee squirts out of a green cylinder underneath the rubber length like I'm holding a plastic wiener. Done with all that business, I throw it in the nearby trash, clean-up my privates and lift up my silk pajama pants.

In spite of my pointed effort not to look, I still catch my reflection in the lowered mirror as I wash my hands. I look like a constipated infant, red-faced and swollen. Briefly, I consider dragging a comb through the blob of curls that is my hair this morning, but I decide Rose might act less bitchy today if she gets to comb through it.

With a comb squeezed in between my legs, I roll to Rosalie's room. Sometimes, I wonder if Nana is aware of the invention of the concrete wall. (As she is my Nana, however, I refrain from such snarky comments. Like Carlisle, she likes to pretend I'm four. I indulge her wishful thinking. It works best for us all that way). There's glass paneling in the hallway from my room to Rose's. As I roll down the hallway to Rose's bedroom, I find that the drizzle from last night has turned into snow. The driveway is blanketed in the offensive white substance, but gaging by the sun blazing overhead, the snow won't last long. Unfortunately for me, maneuvering a wheelchair through a puddle of slush isn't significantly easier than maneuvering one through snow.

Rosalie's room is empty when I reach it.

"Rose?" I call out groggily. My voice sounds thick with sleep. It appeals to all of their protective instincts, which bodes well for me. As angry as I am at Rose, I don't deal well with her being angry at me. It makes ruins my entire day, and as common knowledge, my sunny disposition is easily disturbed.

"She's in the garage," Jasper yells back, loudly enough for me to hear. I perform a cursory glance over the 2nd floor's east wing. Jasper and Alice's door is shut, which is a good indicator as any that I shouldn't touch it with a 10-foot-pole. Rosalie and Emmett's room is empty, and Daddy's – sandwiched in between both rooms – is empty, too. Of all of them, Dad is the only one that doesn't have a bed. For the sake of my sanity, I don't dwell on the reasons behind that. Since I didn't actually care about having my hair look any more presentable, I toss the brush to Rosalie's bed. She can take it back to my room.

Further, since I have no stake in looking attractive for Dumb, Dumber or Daddy Dearest, I decide to head straight down for breakfast. My morning improves considerably when I roll into the kitchen. Nana, God bless her heart, is making pancakes. Carlisle is sitting on the kitchen table, legs crossed at the ankle. The Brady Bunch that is their progeny is nowhere to be found, lord be thanked.

"Morning," I say to them, in naturally dulcet tones. I give them a toothy smile and flash both of my dimples. Both of them beam at me in response, and my anger is lifted. I could come in with my teeth bared and smelling of garlic, and they'd beam at me regardless. My grandparents _always _beam at me like I'm their own personal brand of sunshine. To thank them for their kindness, I act like I am. They pretend I never need to be disciplined, and defend me when I am, even when I'm acting like an insufferable brat. In return, I never give them a reason to do discipline me. A lot of the time, they blame Emmett for my short-comings, believing him to be a corrupting influence. If that works for them, though, who am I to ruin it for them?

"Good morning, sweetheart," Nana says chirpily. I wonder if that woman is capable of yelling.

"Did you sleep well, my darling?" Grandpa asks, in what is a sad attempt at nonchalance. The man is an awful liar, and his eyes cloud over with concern. He's studying me carefully.

"I passed out cold," I say. It's not a lie. Even if it were one, I can lie circles around a Congressman on election day, and look convincing, too. I roll the chair into the emptied space at the head of the table, and stretch out my arms across it. I mull over how much more pleasant my life would be if the Brady Bunch took off for a week and left the three of us to our own devices.

My relationship with my grandparents is one of simple giving, firmly cemented on our mutual belief that I'm the best thing to grace the universe. Unfortunately, there are dreams that cannot be. I'm the responsibility of Edward A. Cullen and Rosalie L. Hale. While my grandparents employ loving patience and gentle admonishment as parenting techniques, Rose and Daddy are as unstable as Britney Spears circa 2010. They spoil me rotten one minute, and then upbraid me for being a brat in the next. The question shouldn't be about _why _I'm crazy. The question should be _why _I'm not more of a stark-raving, emotionally unstable lunatic.

Nana and Granddaddy just spoil me, no questions asked. As if following my line of thought, Nana serves me a plate of fresh fruit sprinkled with granola and a mango smoothie.

"Thank you, Nana," I say cutely, batting my eyelashes. I don't overdo it. It doesn't work as well on Nana as it does on her husband. She kisses me on the forehead, though, besotted.

"Why are you here?" I ask Granddaddy, midway through a gulp of the smoothie and a bite of banana. The yellow liquid streams down the delicate curve of my chin.

"I mean, it's great that you are and all, I'm just wondering," I amend. As the head of a division at the hospital, Granddaddy shouldn't have to work nights or weekends, but he chooses to do so. He really is a very considerate man. It typically means I don't see him on Saturday mornings. Instead, I'm usually regaled with the ball of unrestrained, toddler-like, bat-shit crazy that is Emmett Cullen. My life is unfair.

"There was an accident last night and they needed me in traumatology to ensure there was no neurological damage," Granddaddy explains. I hiss in a breath, suddenly horrified. I drop my spoonful of fruit and granola. Bits of granola splatter everywhere – I feel one of them fall down my bra.

I can't imagine what it would feel like to suffer from trauma to the spine or brain knowing what life is like without such a chronic injury. I feel a surge of frustration on his behalf.

Granddaddy crushes it quickly, though. "The boy will be fine," he says, sensing my worry. "From a neurological perspective, everything is intact. I stayed in until the wee hours of the morning, which is why I was given this shift off. The orthopedics team is looking at him early this morning. It seems like he fractured his knee in multiple places."

Nana replaces my empty fruit plate with a thick stack of pancakes soaking in syrup. I thank her with an appreciative grunt.

"That's great," I say dumbly, inhaling the rest of my mango smoothie. Realizing what I've just said, I blush. "I mean, not that he hurt himself – that's terrible – but that he'll be fine. And that you're here and all that."

Nana sets down a glass of milk in front of my buckwheat pancakes. Granddaddy smiles at me like he thinks I'm cute, his ocher eyes twinkling. He ignores the bits of granola in the dark brown blob of my hair, the yellow stain on my pajama camisole, and the maple syrup dripping down my chin.

I have no such luck with his daughter.

"Ness, you look awful!" Alice announces, walking in through the door. She takes in my messy appearance and wrinkles her nose. Taking a large bite of the pancake, I chew it with my mouth open for the sake of annoying her. Granddaddy chuckles. Alice tsks. The little pixie strolls to the back of the chair and begins to comb through my hair with her fingers. At their best, my mahogany, dark red curls hang down my back in flawless waves. As of right now, they're piled on top on my head like a French poodle. I swat her hands away.

"No, I look like I just woke up," I correct her, taking a gulp of a glass of milk Nana set before me. I'm inclined to burp – Alice would freak – but I don't. I want to keep my Nana under the pitifully deluded impression that she raised a lady. She'd die if she ever heard my inner monologue. I make Emmett look like a candidate for sainthood.

"You have such pretty hair," Alice bemoans dramatically, "And look how you throw it away!" By her tone, you'd think I'd just rejected a scholarship in favor of becoming a cancan dancer at the Moulin Rouge. I roll my eyes.

"I'm going swimming in an hour," I retort. "I don't need to look like a runway model for that."

Not that I'd ever look like a runway model half-naked. Naked, I look like some mutant combination of two different bodies. Courtesy of Jacob Black, there are four sets of scars across the length of my back, raw and pink even after all these years, crisscrossing the white flesh. In spite of my family's best efforts, my legs _look_ paralyzed, withered and bony. My abdomen is flat because I'm skinny, not because it's toned, but somehow it _sags. _All of it is in stark contrast to firm, toned arms, a swan-like neck and perky breasts. A couple of months ago, I heard Cassidy call me a "butter-face" – "Everything is deformed but-her-face." Being the social genius that she is, she drenched her statement in fake pity. The words stung, and sting still. Against my better judgment, I've been thinking of myself in that capacity lately.

Before the bitterness can creep into my voice, I stuff a fistful of pancake into my mouth. I continue to persistently work my way through the stack of pancakes with tremendous dedications. I chew in silence, while Alice retrieves a comb and makes a French braid out of my hair. "There," my Aunt says when she finishes, with a tinkling giggle. "Look how pretty your hair looks, princess."

Both of my Aunts gloat at my beauty as though they'd engineered me personally, showering me with compliments at every opportunity. I was the doll they'd never had, and I was – and am still dressed, if not directly by them – in the most beautiful clothes money could buy. Under their loving care, I grew into a beauty. There hadn't been anything to be done about the slow withering of muscles that had never been used, in spite of hours of physical therapy. Alice and Rose, however, are either oblivious or impervious to the crippled legs and fucked-up back, concealed now by a camisole and pajama pants. I catch my reflection on the gleaming kitchen countertop. _I still look like I drowned an entire bottle of tequila last night, _I tell her in deadpan_. _Alice giggles, but shakes her head.

"Excuse me," I say dryly, pushing the chair back. My voice sounds groggy. I've already shoved into Alice as if intending to steamroll over her. Alice steps aside while I put the plate on my lap and roll over to the sink. Typically, Nana would thank me as though the plate is a child I've rescued from a burning building. Today, she accepts it with a tentative smile, as though she's scared I'll lash out. My lips curl upwards in an attempt at a smile. It doesn't reach my eyes.

Through no fault of her own, Alice has tapped straight into my raw nerves. I'm usually able to keep my disgust at my mangled body at bay. Rosalie _did _raise me to be more of a pusher than a push-over. Neither Alice nor Rose has ever shown the slightest hint of disgust or pity, even though she deals with my damaged body regularly. Under their example, I deal with its needs in stride, taking the unromantic realities of paraplegia with a pinch of dry wit. If the two _gorgeous _women that help me care for the object of my disgust weren't disgusted, then why would I be? My self-disgust stems from frustration – and like the frustration, I was good at keeping it from corroding me from the inside out.

Tears burn out of my eyes as I enter the elevator. Apparently, I wasn't that good. It took one soggy old man to turn me into a weeping jumble of insecurities. Mr. Hemlich's _disgust _last night destroyed whatever restraining mechanism I had left. Slumped over and teary, I go up the elevator. I try not to sniff until I reach my bathroom. At that point, I have to stick a fist in my mouth to keep from sobbing. It works. My tears are mostly silent as they cascade into my mango-covered collarbone.

For the sake of my own mood, and of the senile old man, I tried not to think of Mr. Hemlich's expression. Depression _is _a threat, being in the chair. It does take Herculean strength to put up with the frustration of inaccessibility, stares and general weakness. I know better than to dwell on things I can't change, which is why I barely think of my mother. I _tried_ not to mull over Mr. Hemlich stuck in the MRI tube with Daddy listening in, but my attempts were futile. Rather, though, I think the impact of his stare went far deeper. My subconscious processed the sneer of his lips pulled over his dentures, and the messages in his beady black eyes.

They assail me as I change into a one-piece black bathing suit. I roll into my closet. Careful to face away from the body-length mirror, I use the necessary grips to take off my pants and camisole. At my level of injury – T1 – I have limited control over abdominal muscles and the diaphragm. To help me breathe, I use an abdominal binder. I take it off to put on my bathing suit.

Mr. Hemlich's eyes seemed to recognize I was pretty, but seemed duly unimpressed. In fact, I was reminded of Cassidy and her cohorts. In their eyes, the chair is big enough of a cancerous tumor. In light of it, everything from the luminous dark hair to the sparkling, gold-and-green eyes looks plain. Intellectually, I know I am _prettier, _and that they don't hold a candle to me. It's all part of a vampire allure that is biological fact – as much as it's biological fact that I can't feel anything below the chest. "It's not like they'll find her _attractive_," Joanna Lynch had said. "She's pretty, but…" That's what Mr. Hemlich's eyes seemed to be saying. Old and disabled himself, Mr. Hemlich probably knows better than to romanticize the chair like his grandson does. _She's pretty, I'll give her that _– but not pretty enough to compensate for the hassles of living with a cripple.

* * *

><p>My arm rises, fingers stretching outwards as if to touch the vaulted glass ceiling. Droplets of chlorine-drenched water rivulet down my skin, sparkling under the sunlight. My hand hits the water, and with the other arm I twist.<p>

_One...  
>Two...<br>Three...  
>Breathe...<em>

My left arm rotates, rising in the air and glistening with droplets of water. The right side of my head leaves the water. I take in one long, deep breath before delving back in again. My fingers brush the tiled, shallow end of the pool. Almost giddy, I spin around quickly to face a seemingly endless stretch of water. Floating offers me a respite from sitting in the chair or lying down.

_One...  
>Two...<br>Three...  
>Breathe...<em>

I spin my right arm around, stretching it as if to touch the glass ceiling before bringing it back down. What's best about this – my body burgeoning in the water, the droplets glistening on my skin, the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears - is the _freedom_. The air lovingly bites my left cheek as it leaves the water, for me suck in another breath. In the water, I can almost forget the crippling restraints of physics. Supported partly by the water and made lighter, the dead weight of my legs and torso doesn't feel as burdensome. Outside the water, the chair is both my jailor and my emancipator, limiting me as much as it frees me. In the water, I can _move _out of my own devices, as fast as I want.

_One...  
>Two...<br>Three...  
>Breathe...<em>

The sun streams down the glass window, and underneath it, my skin glows.

Left arm out, right cheek out. In 15 strides, I've reached the other end of the Olympic-sized pool. There's a floating device wrapped around my torso to support it, but I leave my legs dangling. It makes it easier to turn sharply, maintaining the same amount of speed. Around me, people are willing to disregard the fact that I'm swimming as fast as if I were being propelled by four, heavily-muscled limbs. I'm swimming as fast as Kyle Phillips, a senior back at school whose biceps are the size of my torso. Aware of how happy it makes me, however, neither Daddy nor Rose has the heart to tell me to pretend to swim like a paraplegic girl of 120 pounds. Further benefitting me is Kyle's self-involved nature. Kyle only stares at me when I get in and out of the pool, either to try to conceal idle curiosity as I transfer or to gape at my rock-hard nipples like they're shooting rainbows.

_One...  
>Two...<br>Three...  
>Breathe...<em>

The only other person in the pool on Saturday mornings is Mrs. Crawford, a post-menopausal version of Cassidy. Unlike Kyle, she's an awful mixture of self-involved and gossip-hungry. Her son Nate and I go to school together. Since Esme's arrival, she was somewhat debunked as the epitome of the perfect society wife – Esme is more prolific, more charitable and less fake. As svelte as Mrs. Crawford's figure is, I doubt tits as large as hers would stand upright after 40 years of battling gravity. She hugs me every now and then like she thinks I'm Tiny Tim, by smothering my face between her tits. No human nipple should be that hard.

Further attesting to her self-involvedness, she once asked me why I was in "that thing", pointing to the wheelchair like I propelled myself on a hermit crab. Her voice was drenched in pity, but I presumed she was asking if perhaps there was something so tragically wrong with Esme's uterus that I'd suffered some accident at birth.

_One...  
>Two...<br>Three...  
>Breathe...<em>

After the fourth stroke, my fingers touch the edge of the pool. Inside my chest, my heart is pounding, throbbing in my ears. When my right cheek rises for a breath, I spot a figure approaching. It is the illustrious Mrs. Crawford. Her D&G sandals click on the pool, splattering against puddles of water. In an uncharacteristic posture, she's slumped over, and is walking tiredly. Usually, she walks around with chirpy authoritarianism – like a tiny, female Stalin. I decide to hurry up, lest we bump into each other in the dressing room.

_One...  
>Two...<br>Three...  
>Breathe...<em>

I reach the other edge of the pool. Above me, the clock says its 11:30. I have been swimming for an hour and a half. It doesn't matter – I could swim for hours, hours and hours without getting tired. I'd live my life underwater if I didn't need to breathe. However, leaving _now _does have its perks.. It gives me ample time to cross from my lane to the handicapped pool lift, where my chair is parked. I paddle sidestroke across my lane, and duck under the line dividing mine from Kyle's. When I reach Mrs. Crawford's, she is at least 10 meters away from me. _Even _if I did swim slowly, it would be more than enough time for me to cross her lane three times over.

Oblivious to this fact, Mrs. Crawford stops as soon as she spots me, so quickly she could have swallowed water. She rises to her full height. She's breathing heavily, but I know it's all for show. Her heart is beating languidly.

"Nessie, take all the time you need!" she yells across the pool, so loudly I suspect she thinks I'm deaf, not only gimpy. "Don't worry about me! I can wait! I know this is hard for you, poor baby!"

The first time she did this, I thanked her with a sweet smile. Those were the days when I hadn't realized Mrs. Crawford talked _at _me, not _to _me. A little later, I pulled her aside and assured her she didn't need to give me 10 meters of legroom to cross a pool lane. Mrs. Crawford then launched into an impassioned 30-minute speech. Within 10 minutes, she called me selfless and brave, "for pretending to be able to do things when _everyone _knows it's awfully difficult for me." She patted me on the cheek and then pinched it like I was five, not fifteen. Today, I grunt and give her a half-hearted wave to acknowledge her.

The country-club had a pool lift installed a year ago, after a vicious battle with my family on the matter. Installing the pool lift meant that there was one less swimming lane available. The failure to install it was discriminatory. A plastic chair waits submerged for me to sit on it. Once I do, I strap myself in with a seatbelt-type harness and another for both my legs. Then I press the up button on the remote adjacent to the plastic chair, waiting for it to lift me out of the water. Kyle seems nowhere near done, and Mrs. Crawford is – miraculously – not gaping in my direction When Mrs. Crawford does look, she'll say things like: "Oh, the poor dear, look at her struggle!" or "Such a little trooper." We all know how strenuous it is to wait to be lifted places.

Once I'm out, I drag the chair closer to transfer out of the seat. Feet flat on the floor – even though I ought to be wearing shoes - I unfold the towel atop the chair's cushion and spread the towel across it to keep it dry. Finally, I swivel out of the lift and into the chair, wet bottom plopping onto the dry towel. My feet follow. Once in the chair, I cover my ugly legs with a towel.

I unlock the brakes, intending to leave this instant. It's easier said than done – the pool has been made for the able-bodied. The exit is lined by a series of doors, with tiny steps along the way and bipolar-like changes in the flooring. There's a thick plastic mat around the circumference of the pool. The chair wheels get caught on the holes in the rubber, and it sways unsteadily on the uneven ground. The mat stops abruptly where a five-inch step pops up, and the floor becomes stone. To go down the step, I have to spin the chair to angle it – not an easy feat in the Swiss-cheesed plastic mattress – so that it is directly in front of the door when I open it. Placing both hands above the axle of the chair wheels, I roll forward and then push backwards. When I roll forward again, I tuck my chin into my sternum and roll my shoulders forward, until the caster wheels go up in the air. With delicacy, I roll back and forth, finally rolling forward and down the 5-inch step.

Now would be a good time for Mrs. Crawford's cheer-leading.

* * *

><p>It doesn't get any easier from there.<p>

The only access to the female changing room, from the pool, is by a flight of stairs. This means that I have to roll out of the hallway and into the cold, marble lobby, to take the elevator. It's especially fun, dripping wet with a clinging bathing suit. The managerial staff stopped bitching about my "lack of decorum" in the lobby when Rosalie threatened to sue them for being inaccessible left and right. Since then, the Country Club manager has become an unbearable sycophant. His relentless ass-kissing has forced us to make a couple of appearances at courtesy Sunday brunches in the restaurant, which I find hysterical. The manager, a Mr. Fulton, wouldn't stop offering dishes until Granddaddy wiped one clean.

Much to my embarrassment the lobby is packed with Saturday-morning tennis players and their brunching wives. I cover my unsightly legs with the towel I was previously sitting on. Moistened by condensation, my typically silent wheelchair _squeaks _against the marble floors. As I'm below eye level, I pass unacknowledged until I reach the elevator. I have to stretch one arm out to poke the button. This is _awful_, waiting soaking wet in a lobby with pristinely-dressed pretentious fucks. Aside from polite smiles filled with pity, nobody even waves. In spite of that, I feel their gazes _burning _after me. Of all the Cullen kids, I elicit the most gossip, perhaps because the drama in my life is more glaringly obvious.

The female changing room and showers are on the same floor as the gym. I have to maneuver the chair through all of the contraptions and all the gym-goers. There's a rung in the threshold between the gym door and the door to the changing room, forcing me to pop a wheelie. Inside the changing room, things become slightly easier, if not by much. There are two rows of lockers against each wall, with two benches squeezed between them, creating four, tight pathways. The lockers and benches are packed closely together. The chair literally barely _squeezes _through, with both of my hands dragging against the bench-top and the wood-finished lockers, and no space for maneuvering. Although I haven't complained about the hell-hole that is the pool exit, I got pretty tired of leaving my stuff out in the open because I can't _reach _the lockers without setting up permanent residence there.

I transfer out of the chair and onto one of the benches. I still have to stretch out my arms to get the things out of the locker, bent over forward, because the bench isn't quite close enough to the locker. Luckily, my arms are long and my fingers lithe. It's easy to get things out, even with my stomach pressed up against my legs. My life would suck if I were Alice-sized.

My phone buzzes, atop my toiletries, clean towels and a change of clothes. I usually come in here before heading down to the pool. Handling a chair is hard enough down there without a big backpack complicating everything.

"Oh, great," I mumble sheepishly, turning the little device on. For every missed call I don't take, Daddy assumes I've either been kidnapped or am lying on the floor, inches from my death. There are _ten _missed calls from my father, scattered over 15 minute intervals for the two hours I've been here. Underneath him, I missed _three _calls from Buzz Hemlich and _two _from Simon Lowell. It's like they're in order of descending insanity. I look guiltily at the bottom two calls. Simon called me during the game, which he probably attended thinking I'd join him. He doesn't even like football. In my anger and exhaustion last night, I just sent him a quick text. _I can't make it. Sorry. Love you. _

I call my father.

"You need to start answering your phone!" Daddy barks immediately, sounding very much like 120-year-old, grumpy old geezer he is deep in his un-beating heart. "I didn't buy it for the sake of decoration."

"I didn't know my life was in mortal peril inside an indoor pool eight feet deep," I say. Somewhere near my father, Emmett snickers.

For normal, non-psychotic individuals, ten missed phone calls indicate an emergency. For the psycho with OCD that is my father, it's fairly normal behavior. Daddy lives in a constant state of paranoia. If I frown, it's because I'm about to become clinically depressed. If I don't take a bite out of a sandwich, I'm developing an eating disorder. If I forget to lock the chair brakes, I'm exhibiting self-destructive behavior. If I finish my homework inside the car the day it's due, it's because I've become a raging pothead.

"What if something happens to you?" Daddy demands, as if he really wanted to know an answer. "How would you call me?"

Trapping the phone between my shoulder and cheek, I use my free arms to take toiletries out of the locker. I push down the straps of my swimming suit and raise my body from the chair to pull it down.

"I'm sure the kidnappers would let me give you a heads up before running off with me," I retort, lifting each leg by the Velcro strap to my chest, aiming to take the swimsuit off.

"Don't joke about such matters, daughter," he snarls.

There's no point in arguing this with him. He _knows _that I'm doing laps, and hence cannot simultaneously answer my phone. He also knows that the pool lift is usually far away from the available lanes. As he speaks, I stuff the swimming suit into a plastic trousseau and wrap my ugly, skinny body in a towel.

"Can you come pick me up?" I ask, changing the subject. "I'll call you when I'm done."

"Don't you don't need me to teach you how to make a call?"

"Very funny, Daddy," I say. "Really, hilarious."

"Call me when you're done," he says, suddenly calmer.

"Love you," I say, hanging up.

I wheel over to the showers – the epitome of the country club's model accessibility. There's only one excuse for a handicapped-accessible shower. It's roughly big enough to fit a wheelchair, with two pull bars on each side of the wall. In between them is a flimsy plastic chair, like those old people unfold in their back porch. There's a rung in between the changing space outside the shower and the shower itself. The grab bars are about as useful as a clove of garlic to fight a vampire. They're there for show.

All of these things piss Rosalie off. I always quietly tell her, with varying degrees of patience, that people don't usually think about this shit. I don't spend all of my time worrying about homeless kids in Detroit. People just aren't wired to think about things outside their pea-brains, myself included.

The shower itself is awful. I have to crane my neck back to be hit by the water, and to fling my body around in the "bath chair" to get the water to hit my limbs. It takes so long I hear Mrs. Crawford walking in. As her scent assails my nostrils, I groan. I'm midway through coating my hair with "coconut-scented shea oils with vanilla extract." I've barely finished washing my legs – an especially difficult task sitting in a slanted surface, far away from the falling water - when she leaves. I'll have to bump into her. Finally done, though, I use one of the grab bars for leverage, to wriggle by body into my wheelchair. I wrap myself in a towel and leave.

Water flew out of the shower as I attempted to bathe, so the chair is moist all over and the ground has flooded. The spinners on the wheels are damp, and the wheels keep on _squeaking _to announce my presence. In spite of that, Mrs. Crawford doesn't spare me a glance.

The first time my wet chair wheels announced my presence, Mrs. Crawford immediately spoke to me. "You know, I admire people like you." Mrs. Crawford had patted me on the head like I was the family golden retriever. "If I had to live your life, well, I'd be sullen, depressed, angry – and yet look at you! You get out of bed every morning." Roughly translated, she said, "Your life sucks donkey balls. How have you not committed suicide yet?"

Julia Crawford is the combination of two evils, not the lesser one. She says _rude _things, like the people that mumble about how I slow everyone down, park in handicapped spots and unapologetically shove the chair around in malls. Mrs. Crawford's rudeness, however, is thinly veiled by her pity. She is _also _the kind of person that shoves their help up your ass, without any regard for your acceptance of it. Mrs. Crawford holds doors open for me when I'm _feet _away from her, yet slams them in my face when I'm right behind her.

I didn't know how to respond to her admiration that first time, so I gave her a half-hearted smile. Wiser and snarkier, I don't make those mistakes today.

"Your tan looks fantastic, Julia," I say. "You looked _so _pale and sickly last week. I was worried about you!" The tan looks the absolutely glaring opposite of fantastic. Chunks of her skin look like the brown leather on Jasper's ugly-ass 1950s recliner, which he keeps on his study to Alice's horror. I hope my compliment will encourage her to continue spraying herself with cankerous chemicals. Evil dies hard, so I'm not sure she'll be brought down by tanning spray. She'll have to be dragged down by Satan.

"Thank you," Mrs. Crawford says absent-mindedly.

Typically, her eyes will narrow into slits and she will look at me hatefully before the expression flashes away. To hide my insincerity, I would then flash Mrs. Crawford a blinding smile. It's one of those smiles I know leave people dazzled. Mrs. Crawford probably knows it's as false as her eyelashes, because she usually dazzles me back with a smile of her own. Today, however, neither happens – nor the glare, nor the smile. Today, she looks haggard. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she's slumped over as she rubs cocoa butter on her orange-colored, leathery skin. Usually, she hums Spice Girls hits to herself when she dresses. Today, she's silent. While my ears appreciate the break, I find myself concerned for the woman. I'm suddenly concerned for her. I _do _enjoy our little talks.

In the way an inmate prefers hanging out with fellow convicts to solitary confinement.

I slip on my bra and panties, and then slip on a pair of skinny jeans, wriggling around the bench like a fish out of water to manage. Finally, I put on a white, long-sleeved t-shirt. They're both from Gap, which in Rosalie and Alice's minds means "rack at the homeless shelter." To keep Alice off my back, I put on an ivory-colored, hand-stitched wrap around my torso. It's by Dianne von Furstenberg. I finish with matching beige suede boots. Finally, I wrap my hair in a towel. Throughout the entire time, Mrs. Crawford sits there, twiddling her thumbs absently. My concern grows as I wheel off to one of the mirrors. Mrs. Crawford hasn't said anything about how the wrap adds volume to my skinny, underfed frame.

There's something terribly wrong here.

"Julia?" I ask, with genuine concern. I roll closer towards where she's sitting, without squeezing the chair through the lockers. My bony knee is touching hers. "Is everything alright?"

She turns towards me, and immediately, I regret opening my stupid mouth.

Julia Crawford née Kennedy's mouth begins to waver, her lower lip shaking. "Wa ha ha!" she finally sobs, so loudly it sounds like mangled, maniacal laughter. Tears stream down her wrinkled cheeks, without ruining her tattooed eyeliner. Sobs rack her body as she throws her arms around me. I feel her breasts digging painfully against mine as she _loses her shit. _The woman is making "Hee, hee, hoo, ha," noises. She sounds like comedy sitcom characters when infants shoot out of their vaginas on television. I freeze in horror, paralyzed totally and not just in part. _I _can't judge people for crying, because I bawl like a baby all the time. In spite of that, I've never lost my composure like that in _front _of another person.

"There, there," I say awkwardly. I pat her on the back. I'm completely mortified, like Emmett must feel like when Rose and I start discussing tampons.

I'm so glad her eyelashes are fake, or I'd be covered in wet, black goo. She sniffs in front of me. An ugly green booger pops out of her nose, and she wipes it off with her wrist. Ew.

She mumbles something incoherently into my neck.

"I didn't catch that," I say, gently. Inside, my limited patience is growing thin. I have little tolerance for sob-fests, including my own.

"I thought that maybe you – you could talk to him – my poor baby! He's so depressed, and I – wa-ha-ha-wa!" Sobs wreck her body and she tightens her grip around me. I'm engulfed by the _sweet, sweet _scent of her body, and for a split second, I consider drinking. It would be so _easy_ to sink my teeth into her neck…My urge dies quickly, though. Her blood would probably kill my brain cells.

"Talk to whom?" I ask, working desperately to not sound impatient.

She sniffs, wiping her eyes. The tears have made her wrinkles show. The imperfection makes her look less despicable.

"Nate," she weeps.

I say nothing. This is more awkward than a vaginal exam, and twice as painful.

Nate Crawford and I haven't exchanged a _single _word in the last year. From the things I've heard him say, I'm not missing out on much.

"He broke his knee last night – fell out of a tree house - and he can't play this entire season! This is awful. Our lives are awful. I don't know what I ever did to deserve this… He feels like his life is over."

At that, another sob wrecks her body, and Mrs. Crawford bends over as if I just punched her in the stomach. It seems like a very tempting thing. Mrs. Crawford is sobbing as if Nate had _died. _I'm at the end of my tether. I have no tolerance for self-pity.

"He'll recover," I say flippantly, with more bite in my voice than I intended. Mrs. Crawford, however, thinks I'm mentally disabled, too. She tends to disregard whatever comes out of my mouth. When she's clear-headed, she'll attribute my heinous bedside manner to a bad case of Asperger's.

"I was thinking – you know _exactly _what this feels right, don't you?" says Mrs. Crawford as she wipes her tears. Her surgically-enhanced, cod-fish lips are still trembling, but she manages to speak without breaking down. Pointedly, she glances towards the chair, from which my legs dangle uselessly, held together by Velcro straps.

If my jaw falls any further, it shall unhinge.

_What_? Instinctively, my hands shoot to the chair wheels and I backtrack a little.

Mrs. Crawford's big, electric blue eyes are bright with hope. "Could you talk to my little Nate? Share your experience with him? He's lost _everything_ and I'm sure your story is very similar – oh, my little Nay-Nay!"

My jaw is hanging so low it could fit an entire swarm of flies. If I thought she was _dumb_ before, now I think she's criminally stupid – or heinously, disgustingly self-involved.

"Well, I've never _even _played football, _Julia_," I say. I inject the same contempt into her name than I would into a dirty curse word. My voice is saturated in sarcasm; my big, round eyes are slits; my expression is ice. It's meant to be a subtle reminder that I can't _imagine _stopping a sports career because I've never even kicked a football. There's no point of comparison between a season without sports, and an existence of leg-spasms and catheterization.

"Oh, sweetie, but those are just technicalities!" she says, like a patient mother calming down her upset toddler. "In essence, the experience is the _same._"

I find this so darkly humorous I have the fight the urge to burst out laughing. Nate Crawford and his _witch_ of a mother actually _think _breaking a knee is in the same category as breaking the highest thoracic nerve in the spine. I'm so unbelievably angry, and darkly amused, that tears start to sting my eyes. My hands are shaking so hard I grip the chair wheels to still them. I stare at her incredulously. For the first time in my life, I witness some _legitimate _admiration in her electric blue eyes. She just _hugged _me – she didn't press my head against her augmented breasts.

In a split second, as I drink her absolutely _devastated _expression, I feel bad for Nathaniel and Julia Crawford. They've both led such a sheltered, happy existence that Nate feels a crushed knee signals his life is over. It's somewhat tragic that _this _has been the greatest hardship in Nate's life. I get impatient with the small little tragedies of my peers' lives, but they never provoke a paroxysm of rage. Now, what's making me _sick _with disgust is that they're self-involved and stupid enough to think Nate _knows _what it's like to live with a body unresponsive from the chest down. As I look at Mrs. Crawford, I know there is nothing I can say to make her understand that Nate not playing isn't a tragedy akin to breaking the spine. In fact, it might even deflate his big-ass ego enough for him to see past his aquiline nose.

I don't say any of this. I say nothing.

I'd be fighting 40 years of self-involvement, sheer apathy and self-righteousness. Nothing I can say is going to burst the bubble of a life she has led. Angrily, I muss her hair, pretending to be comforting. Then I give her a saccharine smile. I feel bad for producing such a gesture, but I can't wait for this to be over.

I opt for wordlessness.

Mrs. Crawford blinks and sniffs before I crush her to my chest. For the first time in my life, I intentionally physically harm a human. I hug her so tightly, I know I'll leave bruises.

* * *

><p>With messy, wet hair, I leave the changing room. I feel a weakening sense of relief. The purgatory of this is almost over.<p>

"Ness!"

Holy _fucking_ Jesus, I'm not in the mood for this. Chugging down on my lip, I wait for Buzz Hemlich to reach me. I couldn't even spin in his direction if I tried – there's no space. I'd have to go around the spinning bikes. When Buzz does get to me, panting like a dog after fetching a stick, his entire face lights up like I'm _exactly _what he wanted for Christmas. It's cute enough that my anger melts a little, and my responding smile is bright. I'm reminded of how his face is different from his grandfather's. The contrast is glaring, not because Buzz' skin is taught over his face, because his tall-frame is so well-built or because his eyes are electric blue, not dark brown. It's because Buzz wears the infatuated, silly grin of a boy in love – not the disgust and hate of a man looking at his long lost enemy.

For a second, my insecurities flare away in the light of his adoration. If his grandfather came near me, I'd be able to flip him a bird. I'm overcome with a desire to hug Buzz.

…Until he squats down and presses a big, wet, sloppy kiss to my cheek. He smells of sweat, heavily coated by a dose of Chocolate-scented Axe. If I could cough, I'd be choking at the disgusting smell. It's a very gentle kiss, and he lingers on my cheekbone for longer than is necessary.

I blush, not only out of embarrassment – the people that weren't staring at me are now staring – but because I find myself oddly flattered. Coils in my stomach flare, as a chill rises from the tip of my spine all the way to my neck.

As quickly as I can – in a motion almost imperceptible to human eyes – I wipe down my cheek with my t-shirt sleeve.

"Hey, Buzz," I say. I'm peeking up from underneath my eyelashes, not for the sake of appearing cute, but because I'm _blushing _like a tomato. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it last night."

Buzz reaches out to tuck in a wayward hair out of my ear. I pulled it into a messy, wet knot at the top of my hair. Wet, it looks dark red. I move my head away like a baby rejecting mashed carrots.

"Where were you?" Buzz asks curiously.

I freeze for a second. This means Dear Ole' Grandpa didn't tell him he saw me. It makes sense, if he's disgusted by the prospect of his grandson coming anywhere near me.

"My brothers and I were hanging out," I say, nonchalant. "I hadn't seen them in a week. I lost track of time."

I purposefully refrain from sounding apologetic. I'm not his beck-and-call girl.

My aspiring lover-boy turns stiff at the mention of my brother, and beads of nervous sweat begin to drip down his forehead. Buzz fears Emmett will one day lose it one day, and pummel him to death. Hell, I bet his instincts tell him my father – ganglier and shorter than him – could probably do it, too. I feel bad for the poor boy. As annoyed as I am for his touchy-feely kisses to my cheek and whatnot, I'm even more annoyed by my male relatives' desire to ward them off me. They're just as bad as Buzz is, if not worse. Their threats and punches imply that I _can't _defend myself, which in the long-term, makes me more vulnerable.

"How did the game go?" I ask, hoping to lighten the mood. "I heard Nate got hurt."

I inject a socially-acceptable amount of sadness into my voice. Inside, I'm kind of pettily glad. I wouldn't object to hurting the Crawford family jewels if given the chance.

Buzz looks sideways to his left and right. Then a tiny _beam _of happiness spreads itself across his face, contained below his cheekbones through Buzz's tremendous effort.

"Coach asked me to step up as quarterback," he whispers excitedly. "And we _won_!"

My smile is genuine. "That's awesome!" I say, strangely proud of this boy I think of as a little, lost puppy. The smile is slapped off my face when his beam stretches to the point that he looks like he's had a bad Botox injection. Hope shines brightly in Buzz's blue eyes, and he looks at me like he's besotted.

Christ almighty.

A part of me wants to crush his hopes before he decides to stick his tongue in my mouth. Another is clinging to his infatuation, basking in the safety of his obsession. Buzz Hemlich _wants _me, and the 16-year-old girl in me _needs _that.

"It sucks you weren't there to see it," he continues, genuinely disappointed. Seconds later, Buzz's lips turn down, and they tremble. They don't look unlike Mrs. Crawford's earlier in there. A part of me starts to panic. I've pulled _one _person's shit together today. I can't do it for two.

"You need to tell me all about it later," I say, like I mean it. It's less blatantly rude than to tell him that frankly, my dear, I give zero damns.

My hands fall to the wheels of the chair, and I start pushing, gently nudging his shins with my knees. I roll back and forth a little, like I'm prepared to speed the fuck out of the gym the second he moves. "I really need to get going, though."

Finally, it comes.

"We could go out this weekend," he offers, "And I could tell you about the game."

His "proposal" feels like taking a dump after battling constipation.

I make a sound like I have been punched with weightlifting equipment. Buzz's giving me a look that he probably thinks is smolderingly sexy. He looks like a 7th grader trying to solve a differential calculus problem.

"My fath – my brother, I mean – is waiting," I say, smiling through gritted teeth. "I really need to get going. He's been waiting for 30 minutes."

I send my original plan to hell, pushing the chair backwards. This forces me to look behind me, like I'm trying to park in reverse. The chair's backrest hits a weightlifting bench.

"Ness, wait," he says. He grabs on to my shoulder. I wrench it out of his reach.

"I really need to go."

Buzz lodges his brick-sized foot in below one of the chair wheels. Buzz and I both know that if I roll forward, I'll tip over. His foot is high enough that I can't run over it if I tried. With the chair, it's hard to run over a half-full bag of Doritos as it is.

I grind my teeth so loud it sounds like pliers snapping. I give him a look that is murderous, even baring my teeth. Even then, Buzz looks _smug. _I'm looking at him like a _vampire _looking at its prey – which must be pathetic, because I've never once attempted to look like one. He _smiles _at me, and his eyes twinkle with amusement like I'm a toddler trying to act-grown up. The girl in the chair can't get _angry. _Apparently, stigma about people with disabilities runs deeper than his lizard brain instincts to run away from vamps…except where his desire to fuck is concerned.

A scream of fury nearly flies out of my mouth.

"Buzz, _stop it_," I snarl. Tears of rage – always the freaking tears of rage – pool in my big, doe-like eyes. I wonder how much I'd have to restrain my punch to keep his balls from bruising like crushed peaches.

"That's _not _how you'll get me to go out with you."

Or to play with Little Buzz, which is probably his ultimate goal here.

The smug look vanishes off his face, and his eyes _plead _with me. "Then _how _do I get you to go out with me?" It's more an imploration than a question.

"I don't like going out," I say flatly.

This isn't entirely a lie. Going out in a wheelchair can be just as awkwardly painful as a pap smear delivered by your own grandfather (an experience that made me want to begin experiencing early onset Alzheimer's).

"Come on," he says, cackling like he thinks I'm telling a far-fetched lie.

Hasn't this _idiot_ seen me? In the cafeteria, I have to sit at the head of the table and not on it. It's uncomfortable because the chair won't move fully in. so I have to slump down. The lunch line counter is raised so high the lunch lady has to peek down and ask. While I could hold the tray myself, I _can't _be served from a wheelchair. Buzz should know this, as he's offered to be the one to receive my stale meatloaf and potatoes swimming in yellowed grease.

I raise both my dark eyebrows at him, silently daring him to contradict me. With that, his expression changes. He squats down. Buzz is good at squatting; it doesn't feel like he's treating me like a five-year-old. It feels like he is giving me the courtesy of a face-to-face chat.

"It'll be fun, Ness, I promise," Buzz says softly. With surprising tenderness that bursts inside my stomach like the proverbial butterflies, he cups my cheek. "We'll do _whatever _you want, I promise."

I'm feeling like I can't breathe. It has nothing to do with the paraplegia.

A part of me harbors a lizard brain attraction to the muscled, "meh" handsome Buzz Hemlich. The primate in me recognizes a fellow ape, and wants to mate with it. Another wants to dive off the chair and drag my body as far away as possible. I _can _outrun a chubby, out of shape squirrel. The fully-human paraplegic in me, though, would probably only outrun a snail, dragging her torso, hips and legs with her arms. Another part of me, knowing she is unable to run, wants to raise her arm to punch his balls. Buzz's balls dangle, uselessly like my legs, at my eye-level.

"Look," I say, flustered. "I'll call you, alright? I need to go."

I make the offer because I know Buzz will call me soon – like a nervous six-year-old at his first sleepover calling Mama.

"Now get your foot out of the way," I add, through gritted teeth.

I feel like weeping with relief when Buzz removes it. He has the decency to look slightly shamed, but it's muted by an overwhelming expression of joy. He looks as surprised as if I had slapped him, and he enjoyed the shock of it. His eyes are big and wide with hope.

"I'll see you, OK?" I say it not quite sweetly. I might be grimacing, and my smile feels like pursed lips. "Go back to work out."

"Fine," he concedes with a sigh. "I'll call you, baby girl."

Holy mother of fuck, when is he going to grasp only Emmett can get away with that redneck nickname? To make matters worse, he squats down to invade my personal space. One of his legs falls across the space where my useless ones are bound together by Velcro. His arms crawl up the arms rest, and his neck falls right on top of my nose. It's the first time there's been that much bodily oil near my T-zone.

He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead.

I resist the urge to wipe the sweat he rubbed off on my forehead and gag. I instead pretend to smile. It looks like a grimace. I'm _chortling _uncomfortably. I sound like Nana and Granddaddy at the hospital benefit last year, when a tipsy Dr. Welch started making jokes about her husband's affair with the flamboyantly homosexual pool boy.

"I'll see you," I choke out.

Satisfied, Buzz leaves. He probably thinks I'm flustered because of his debonair charm. He strokes my cheek as a parting gesture.

It's nauseating.

It's flattering.

I should be committed to a madhouse.


	5. Difficulties of Dialogue

**The Difficulties of Dialogue **

In the car, my spirits deflate like a punctured balloon.

"Do you want to talk about it, Nessie, love?" Daddy asks gently.

The chair and the duffel bag are packed up in the trunk of the Audi. I'm sitting on the passenger seat, head tilted and leaning on the glass. Above us, the sun has defeated the cloud-cover after a momentary 30 minute loss. Daddy used the time to pick me up.

His voice is gentle, but the tone underneath is pulsating rage. One of his hands reaches out towards mine, stroking the delicate knuckles on it. The other hand is tightly clutching the steering wheel. Daddy's furious – at the inaccessible shower – even though he's only gathered bits and pieces of it.

"There's nothing to talk about," I say. Rather, there's plenty to talk about – Big Foot, Mr. Hemlich… - but nothing to do about it.

"That's not true, darling," he says. "I can make you a pool – two times the size of this one. Nana can help me build one, and you can _swim _for as long as you want, love, all day long if it makes you happy."

At school, I picked my classes based on the convenience of the classroom location. The only class I take in the second floor is Chemistry because Daddy said I'd love it. It's a matter of convenience to stay in the confines of the first floor. It takes time to maneuver the chair in a sea of rushing High School students. The elevator location is sometimes far away from the classroom I'm headed to, or coming from. Daddy and Jasper carry me up there every now and then, in the chair, which is mortifying. Even with them present and _glaring like vampires_, people mumble under their breath about the disruption. I didn't take Health because it's around the building and up the field, which I could reach, but not in 10 minutes. The Health classroom is across the field, and underneath the bleachers. I'd never get a tardy, but to _get _to the class would take 1/3 of class time.

What Daddy is suggesting is essentially the same thing – forgoing Health for the sake of convenience.

"It's not the same thing, Renesmee," he snaps, angrily. "It's not an extra luxury and it's not a financial hassle of any kind. To get a pool would be akin to getting a TV. It would even be highly beneficial to do leg exercises in the water."

"I'd stop _going _to the country club because it's inaccessible," I say. It was the same with pity – I got a lot of it from the world, so self-pity would be overkill. There were enough physical barriers to using a chair without me adding the mental barrier of _not _using the damn chair because it's hard.

* * *

><p>Drained, but not exhausted, I head up to my room immediately. It's barely 2 o'clock, but I change into my pajamas, and then I go into the bathroom to self-catheterize. It's been six hours.<p>

Mrs. Crawford _was _on to something. The exhaustion I succumb to isn't of the physical kind. I succumb to an awful "here we go again." I don't miss easy mobility because I've never had it, but I _yearn _for it. It's not daily that the craving assails me like this, in the form of a frustration so deep, it corrodes everything.

I don't want to move.

Rather, I don't want to move into the damn chair.

I don't want to.

Wrap my knees with the Velcro strap

(_They fall like an accordion if left to their own devices_)

3-point-turn

(_It's easy in here where the space is cleared out, but it still needs technique_)

park the chair by locking it's breaks

raise the footrests

(_It's a good thing to use them for foot support, even though they're a hindrance in getting in __and__ out of the chair) _

Hoist my body into the bed

Lift up my legs afterward

For the fully-ambulatory, the degree of precision and pre-planning with which I move is unimaginable. The mechanics for walking are so _short_, so perfunctory, executed easily by even the clumsiest of limbs. It pisses me off.

It makes hatred for Jacob Black brew hotly in my stomach.

The sun streams down the window and falls into the marble tiles. The toilet and the grab bars around it sparkle under its rays. Eventually, I use the grab bars to get off the toilet and into the chair. I brush my now dry hair into a twist that hangs from the top of my head, messily. With the soft glow of the sunlight, my hair looks dark red.

I roll out into the room. Nana made my bed, with its four posters and a pale pink quilt. The bed frame and its posters are white wood, giving it the look of a cherry-tree in spring, and the flooring – of white oak – is the same color. The quilt is pale pink, with lace white pillows at the top of the bed. The glaring imperfection is a green-colored frog with glue-on eyes sitting on the ivory-colored pillows. The bedroom would be any girl's wet dream, if ruined slightly by the fact that there are grabs bars everywhere, even underneath the desk to help me out of the wheelchair and into an office chair.

Sometimes, it's nice to sit _elsewhere. _

For a second, I consider just climbing out of the chair and sprawling into the bed, to curl up and _sleep_.

It takes a Herculean effort not to. I go grab a book. My fingers brush over _I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, _but that'd be a page right out of Daddy's playbook – wallowing in my own misery. Instead, I grab _The Sorcerer's Stone. _The book's simple, kiddy humor might lift my spirits before I go off the deep end. I roll into my walk-in closet and grab one of the quilts kept on a shelf. It goes into my lap with _Harry_.

In the mirror, I see my bare feet dangling, foot-rests lifted. I took the Velcro-strap binding my knees together off to use the catheter and didn't bother to wrap my knees again. My knees have fallen open and my feet are dangling, foot-rests raised. My toes drag on the floor.

Even in the dead of night, I _always_ pull down the foot-rests and try to re-arrange my legs. What I'm doing is morbid, petty – even depressive. It's like I'm purposefully mistreating my own limbs.

Emmett frowns when he sees me leave the elevator, but doesn't comment on it.

Once I manage to open the sliding glass door, I push out into the terrace. It's a raised deck over the lake, decorated with loungers and an L-shaped, padded ledge. Because of the snow and in spite of the sun, the air bites and my cheeks turn pink from exposure. It doesn't take long for my fingertips to go cold. If I were in a better mood, I'd appreciate how _gorgeous _it looks – the budding trees covered in snow, surrounding Lake Erie as the water throws rainbows under the sun. I'm also a spoiled brat. There's nothing _special _about this for me – I've _always _lived in massive, beautiful properties with views construction companies would kill for. Still irritable, I fling both book and quilt carelessly into the floor, dropping them as if letting go of trash.

When I transfer into a padded lounger, I do it wrong. I'm supposed to angle the chair closer to the lounger, plant my feet on the floor and swivel my torso out of the chair.

I do none of these things.

Without even locking the brakes, I lift my body like I'm trying to do a push-up and move one arm to the lounger, feet twisting underneath me –

"Baby, you're going to hurt yourself," Emmett says. There's heavy southern accent coloring his words – he's nervous. He's beside me in the blink of an eye. Gently, he pushes me down on my shoulder and angles the chair closer to the lounger. "Do you want me to help you?"

Emmett is more perceptive than people give him credit for.

I chug down on my lips, still suspended in midair. I grunt instead of nodding.

In response, Emmett lifts me easily into the lounger, and then wraps me up in the blanket.

I'm spoiled enough that I expect this kind of relentless servitude. It's their fault, of course. I was not simply well cared for; I was _adored_. I suspect the chair aggravated the spoiling, but not by much. My every wish and need was catered to by a family that had never experienced a growing child. If I wanted it, it was mine. If I didn't like it, it was replaced with a profuse apology. My tears made the house go into a panic, and my smiles, brightened it up. The house lives under _my _dictatorship, but none seem to mind. Growing up, I was told I was a precious gift. In the self-involvement and idiocy of most eight-year-olds, I took this to mean I was God's gift to humanity. Puberty was the only proverbial ton of bricks that took me down several pegs. Even then, I don't thank Emmett.

Before I have even opened _Harry_, Emmett returns with a pair of thick socks and slippers. I peer up at him from underneath my fat black eyelashes, pretty pink lips pursed.

"May I?" he says. The man knows something's up – he usually never asks before doing shit for me.

"You're going to do it anyway," I say stiffly. It's my snooty version of consent.

Emmett recognizes as much. He grabs both of my feet and slips on the garments. It isn't a matter of me feeling the sting of the cold, but about my nervous systems' response to it Peripheral nerves still work, even if the signals to the spine don't. Emmett knows as well as I do that I was practically begging for a bad case of AD. Any stimulus can trigger it. Exposing my feet to the weather like that is one of such stimuli. It's cold enough for the tip of my nose to go red. Finally, he wraps my feet inside the comforter, like a burrito.

"All better now," he says. He touches the tip of my pert nose with one of his fingers. The tip of his pinky is bigger than the cartilage underneath it.

"I can't tell, can I?"

Emmett stops, backtracking. One of his large hands cups my cheek, which pink and cold under the air's attack. His palm is big enough to stretch from the tip of my delicate chin past my cheekbones.

"What's up, honey bunny?" he asks. His tone is light and at odds with his face.

"It's old news that I can't feel shit down there, Emmett," I say snappishly. "There's nothing "up.""

I tilt my chin to my useless feet. It's a somewhat ironic statement, as I can't feel shit in my rectum, either. I've had to train my body to shit on schedule. There's no such thing as an ass-catheter; I have to take the shit out with my fingers, over the course of one hour. Much to my chagrin, Emmett knows this too well. His wife loves me _so much _she helped me shit like clockwork, when I was a little girl – and would probably do it now, if I wasn't too ashamed to ask. Nobody's ever indicated the slightest hint of disgust or discomfort at the disgusting realities of living with SCI.

Pain is a more common reaction, and Emmett's eyes are wide with it now. He hides it well, though. Emmett's never pitied me, either. "If I felt pain like you feel every day, the neuropathic bastard, I'd cry like a little girl," he told me once.

"I don't believe that for a sec, champ," he says, deceptively light-hearted. "Talk to Uncle Emmy." In addition to calling me _princess _or _gorgeous _or _baby girl_, he's always called me _champ. _

"There's nothing to talk about," I say dryly. From underneath my eyelashes, I peek up at him pointedly.

"That's not true, gal-pal, and we both know it." The Tennessee accent makes me laugh. Tension broken somewhat, I decide to take the stick out of my ass. Emmett is better at heart-to-hearts than people credit him for.

Finally, a sigh forces past my pearly little teeth where they trap my plump lower lip. I put down my book. Emmett doesn't move, waiting for me to continue. Rare patience like this is what makes Emmett a good hunter – although I'd die before admitting that. Jasper, typically more patient in every way, doesn't understand that – and frightens away his prey.

"It's nothing specific," I finally say. My voice isn't breaking, or threatening to. It just sounds _weak, _like I need to curl up for a while and drink hot cider. "I've just had a tough two days."

Telling him the specifics is going to wreck this rare bout of maturity.

"I'm sorry, honey," he says. Emmett is best for these kinds of things, because he and Rose don't like wallowing in self-pity.

As if he can read my mind, Emmett inches closer. I break the space between us and wrap my arms around him. He rubs his hands on my pink, fleece pajamas. Emmett usually gives hugs of the bone-crushing variety, but this one is gentle. In my bear of an uncle's arms, I feel safe and protected. I'm no longer overwhelmed.

He kisses the crown of my head, and I finally break the hug after giving him a squeeze.

"Did you guys find Big Foot?" I finally ask. My tone is nonchalant, which is bizarre as I'm talking about the forest-dwelling Godzilla of the Northeast.

"That's not really what's bothering you, is it, Nessie?"

"Not to go all Edward Cullen woe-is-me on you," I say, "but it's one of many things at the moment."

In all fairness, Daddy does have a great many things to mope about – his daughter is paralyzed and his wife is gone – but apparently he was just as bad during the entirety of the 20th century.

"Seriously, though," I prod, looking at Emmett in the eye. I don't do the eyelash batting mojo because looking cute and vulnerable isn't going to help. Where Big Foot is concerned, I'm sure Emmett has done everything he can. I saw him last night, but I'm sure it was all show so I wouldn't panic. Nobody but Nana is in the house, and he wasn't here this morning. Emmett's been out patrolling, looking for the bear, all night long – and was sent home for a break, mental if not physical.

"Well…" he begins. I'm reminded of the time I asked him to let me watch _Jaws. _

"Well…" I urge him on. "Did you get to wrestle some mutant bears?"

His face falls like a little kid whose new tennis shoes were just ruined by random dog crap on the street. The man even pouts. _Bingo, baby - _Emmett is so _easy _to manipulate sometimes. Like a sock puppet.

"First off, by the time Jazz and I got to you the wind had blown away a whole lot of the stench. The trail grew a little colder by the time we went back to look for it, and then as we followed it, it started to rain. We were gonna give up, but then Jazz and I caught the scent of – "

Emmett stops suddenly, to study my face hard, as if to look for traces of fear in my expression.

He knows I'm no pussy. Emmett even once told Daddy, "Damn, bro, your daughter's got more balls than you do." At the same time, he's heard me scream raw-throated, thrashing in bed (as best as my body will let me), and sweating bullets in the dead of night. Emmett knows it's because, after all this time, I still remember the feeling of Black's teeth _digging _into my sides. I still remember with crystal clear clarity what it felt like to have his paw press down on my thorax, as blood streamed out of my newborn body. I still _remember _feeling one, grimy black claw dig into the finger-sized spinal cord, the tip razing it dead.

"I'm scared of wolves, not bears," I point out. My tone is carefully controlled.

The joke that _I _would make – and Emmett, too, in different circumstances – would involve my phobia of Saint Bernards and well-endowed Labradoodles. Emmett doesn't find it funny. In fact, Emmett looks murderous with rage when Jacob Black is so much as mentioned.

"Jazz and I smelled car exhaust," Emmett finally admits with a sigh. Emmett looks at me expectantly, like he's revealed some incredibly important detail – like mobsters admitting to betrayal in the Godfather trilogy. Emmett really needs to work on his fantasies about becoming Major Tom and 007.

"People out hunting?" I ask, shrugging my shoulders. "A Park ranger?"

Emmett gives me a funny look.

"Yeah, Ness-Ness," he finally says. "Sumthin' like that."

* * *

><p>I begin with <em>Straight Leg Raises. <em>Grabbing my left ankle by the pants, I pull it up towards my chest, such that my knee is touching my nose. Keeping the leg raised, I slowly recline using my right arm, which supports my torso. I'd plop down messily if I just pulled my left arm off from under my torso's weight. I stretch out my right arm to hold on to my knee to keep it straight.

I hold for two minutes.

I continue with the _Straight Leg Raises. _Both my hands crawl down to the bottom of my thigh to lower it, a rather difficult task when you can't sit up. When my hands are too low down the thigh, it plops down unceremoniously, like souffle popped by a fork. With both arms, I sit up again. The cycle repeats four times for each leg, with each stretch being 30 second longs.

"You'll tear the muscle, Renesmee," Rose says sharply. "30 seconds _only._"

I _hate _it when people call me Renesmee. For crying out loud, my mother was plugged to an IV and carrying vampire spawn. It can't have been a state conducive to mental clarity. They might as well have gone to the nearest pothead, or the nearest sugar-high five year-old, who would've named me Lady Beyoncé Twinkly Buttercup Baby. Emmett came up with the halfway decent nickname of Nessie. We all call me that to pretend my real name isn't nearly as bad as Consuela Banana-Hammock.

Rosalie and I remain alone in the third floor. A room in it was completely cleared for me to do physical therapy. It would be the envy of the physical therapy center in town, if they knew it existed. It has state of the art equipment – from the plinths, a raised table with a padded mat; to the exercise machinery; to the exercise balls. True to form, my grandmother made the space beautiful. The hardwood floors are mahogany and where the windows should be, she made the walls glass pane. It means that sometimes I come up here even when I'm not in therapy, to watch the sun rise over the lake, melting away the caps of snow on the far-off pine cones and the barren oaks. It's so beautiful that I don't mind sounding like a melodramatic tourist endorsement when I describe it.

Facing the wall, in the far corner is a bicycle-type machine, used for a type of therapy called NES (Neuromuscular Electrical Stimulation). Electrodes are stuck to different muscle groups in the legs and the heenie, so that they are electrically-stimulated into cycling. I use the thing for at least a half-hour, every _single _day. The only exceptions have been times like yesterday, when everybody though my brain would bleed to its death, or for short vacations. I haven't stopped using it for more than four days. The Bike even has a substitute in motherfucking _Brazil, _where we spend three-week holidays in the wintertime.

When I was 12, I willingly managed to move my pinky toe on my right foot. Given the way everyone reacted, you'd think I'd invented the cure for cancer, or pushed a child out of my loins. I find it kind of pathetically funny. My central nervous system's one hurrah in life has been the ability to wiggle "the little piggy that cried all the way home". Carlisle suggested that "the miracle" (or, realistically speaking, grandfather dear, pinky wiggling) might be due to the NES therapy.

I personally think Black missed a spot.

Since then, Rose and Daddy have developed a ridiculous fascination with the Bike, a model called RT300. If you ask me, the ability to move a pinky toe doesn't justify spending hundreds of hours electrifying one's muscles like the fence around a military base. Daddy and Rose both think I'm being silly when I say that. Once Rose and I finish doing the exercises I can't manage unassisted, I'll be strapped to the thing for an hour.

I glower at Rose as though she just called me "shitfuck." _You'll tear the muscle, shitfuck._

My godmother is sitting on one of the plinths, Indian style – a surprisingly carefree gesture for a woman that uses her long, beautiful legs to intimidate women and get men's attention – while thumbing through _Vogue_.

"No, I won't," I say cockily, biting back laughter. "They're supposed to be vampy muscles, remember? They don't work because the spine doesn't, not because they don't."

That isn't necessarily wrong, per say, but it was truer before the spine snapped. To move the muscles below the line of injury, electrical stimulation or what I'm doing now has been used. It's called "passive range of motion", exercises performed on the joints to keep them from stiffening, and to ward off spasticity. Rose forces me to do it three times a day, and Daddy agrees. I pretend to be annoyed, but I rather enjoy the stretching, even if I can't feel it. No matter how effective the exercises are, however, they aren't the same as _moving _in vigorous exercise. The muscles are flaccid. Regardless, the muscle tissue is that of a vampire.

"I know that," Rose says, her voice softening, "but we better not to risk it."

I continue with _Ankle Dorsiflexion, _which takes less effort. I sit up, and stretch my arms out so my torso swings forward. Each hand crawls forward, like a five-legged spider, and grabs on to the balls of each feet. Like always, I hold for 30 seconds.

The house is so quiet I can hear the wind rattling windows, and it isn't particularly windy outside. Someone, thinking I was still five, left the TV on, with ESPN playing. The sound of Rosalie flipping pages echoes. There's a basketball game on, but I know Emmett is absent. He usually grunts, mumbles under his breath about the golden era of Michael Jordan, or bitches against the manager. When the game finishes, Emmett usually says, "Well, after _that, _somebody should score," and goes looking for Rosalie.

As if that weren't disturbing, I've seen parts of what happens after Emmett proclaims his desire to score. Emmett might as well be thinking, "Well, Nessie's brain has been on her head too long. Let's burn it off with the most disgusting image ever" – namely, Emmett slapping Rosalie in the ass and then calling her hot mama. (I've seen that happen more than once). Alternatively, he'll making growling and giggling noises while sucking on Rosalie's neck. It's perturbing. Sometimes, I think he does it to exercise my gag reflex.

I'm worried because Rose and I are all alone, and I want to know _why._

Releasing my grip, I stay down, with my nose between my ankles, inhaling. _Somebody, probably Emmett himself – he has the self-awareness of a newborn baby – is trying to pull the wool over my eyes. _

Fifteen seconds later, I grab the balls of my feet again. I hold for 30. Then I repeat the exercise twice. My hands crawl back down my legs, so that they align with my shoulders, pushing my torso halfway upright. Then they jump backwards, until they're aligned with my hips, and I'm sitting upright.

Putting down _Vogue, _Rose uncrosses her legs and raises the plinth to a 90 degree angle. With my back supported, my hands are free to continue stretching my legs. I continue with _Hip Rotations _for each leg. I bend the knee to my chest, place the inside of the foot against the opposite thigh, and press down on the knee. I hold for 30 seconds. The right knee touches the plinth mat easily. Then I bring the knee back up, to repeat the motion four times. When I try for the left knee, I meet resistance, so I push down gently.

Below me, I hear the Hawks lose (as they always do). Emmett is a big fan because of some southern solidarity thing he spews out like a Confederate Soldier. When the Hawks lose, Emmett goes looking for Rosalie to "dunk like 'em Hawks should."

Just thinking about what that means makes me want to blow my brains out. My face contort I'm being force-fed the boiled prunes they give the denture-less patients at the hospital. From the corner of her eye, Rose looks at me curiously, amusement tinged with worry about my sanity.

I'd be worried, too.

This time, I'm worried not because the Hawks have lost and Emmett isn't here grabbing Rosalie's ass like her butt-cheeks are stress balls.

For the past weekend – tomorrow, Monday looms ahead – I've been left alone at home with one adult, presumably so that adult could babysit me. I'm not stupid.

This is a good a time as any to start asking questions. It'll give me something to build on for my planned collective Q&A session with the Brady Bunch. When we're all riding to school tomorrow, I can drop a question or two. Paradoxically, it's easier to interrogate them collectively than to interrogate them alone, because they all _need _to put their input in. If they are lying, they will most likely say conflicting things.

To finish, I do _Hip Internal Rotation_. Keeping my leg bent to my chest, I press down on my knee and push it down against the opposite thigh. Once I'm done with the same routine, I plop my leg unceremoniously on the plinth mat.

Rose grimaces. Nobody likes it when I fling my legs around carelessly, like potato sacks. Rose always touches them very gently.

"Done," I tell Rose chirpily.

Rose looks up and smiles at me. Gracefully, she climbs down from the plinth and begins working on my legs. First, she grabs one foot and places her hand along its arc, lithe fingers on the heel, and pushes the foot backwards. As tall and flexible as I am, paraplegia notwithstanding, I can't do that one alone.

When Rose finishes that one, she turns the arch of foot towards the opposite leg, as if to twist my pinky towards my toe. Then she does the opposite, twisting the toe-side inwards and the pinky side outwards.

"Let's do the quadriceps now," she says softly when she's done. Very gently, she lifts up my foot and presses a kiss to the arch.

With Rose propping one of my hips up, I turn to the side using my arm, and then scoot backwards. Rose pushes that hip down and arranges my legs behind me, before grabbing one ankle – and presumably bringing it to touch my ass.

Thanks to Dumb & Dumber, I have a good poker face. Regardless, I'm a fairly good actress, born both out of a need to downplay physical and emotional pain, and the ability to manipulate four grown men like sock puppets. While Emmett is as easy as a 4th grader's math homework, his wife is no picnic. I can't pretend to cry, call her Aunt Rose and give her the goo-goo eyes. Rose would see right through me like I'm a glass window. It's easiest to lie, though, when I'm not looking at her.

My time has come.

"Where is everybody?" I ask, as casually as I can. Once I've delivered the question, I crane my head in her direction.

"Carlisle and Esme are out on a date, Alice went shopping, and everyone else is out hunting," Rose says, feigning nonchalance. With one perfectly manicured hand, she tosses a coil of golden hair behind her shoulder…

… which roughly translates to: "This is so fucking important we should all be setting evacuation plans and calling the national guard." Rose is a strange creature. The more dismissive she is of something, the more profoundly it affects her. To Rose, flipping one's hair is like flipping one's shit.

"_Why?_" I yell, in a whiny, high-pitched tone. It echoes throughout the empty house. I scrunch up my face in displeasure, twisting my pretty pink lips into a grimace and wrinkling my nose with irritation. Fortunately for me, my complaint is real, and my delivery of it is only slightly exaggerated. "I _needed _to go hunting, Rose. I didn't get to do it yesterday!"

"We couldn't take you hunting," Rose says curtly, her eyes narrowing as they give me the evil eye. The little girl in me is backtracking, her stomach sinking and her lips puckering. Above that, I am genuinely furious. I _needed _to hunt, and it's not like it's ever been a problem to give me whatever I want.

The true challenge to my Oscar-worthy acting skills is about to come now.

"_Why_?" I repeat, this time tinting my whiny scream with an adequate dose of pain. Without overdoing it, I give Rosalie the goo-goo eyes. "Is it because I can't walk?"

It's not hard to falsify the uncertainty and maelstrom of emotions that the phrase "can't walk" stirs in me, and to pore it out with my eyes. For one, I find it corny. The Sisters at Saint Marge's, and the elderly in particular (but not exclusively) always use the phrase "sick legs." The users of the phrase are misinformed, the phrase is cheesy, and the implication is irritating. I'm disabled, not sick. The _truly _stupidest people struggle with the distinction between the two. The fact that I use a wheelchair doesn't mean I'm unhealthy. My legs look withered not because they've atrophied – Rose and Daddy have worked too hard against that – but because the musculature didn't fully develop.

What's more is that the inability to walk feels like a deeply personal situation, even if the chair is laid out for everyone to see. It's _frustrating_, and it's painful. For my entire life I've struggled to fix the nerves, to get out of the chair, and to maximize my independence and quality of life _in it. _I never struggled with _accepting _the chair – my equivalent of learning to crawl and walk was learning to move around in the chair; and potty training was learning to self-catheterize and to manage my bowel. I went through learning acts of independence like any child, if a wheelchair-bound one. That was the family's issue, adapting to the chair and accepting it. For me, the challenge has been to define what it means to _me. _

The problem has been finding the delicate line between keeping it from defining me, and to understand and appreciate how it has shaped me. The hardest struggle of all has been finding the balance within that vortex of emotions. Sometimes I feel so _angry _everyone can _see _that, in the way other people can hide alcoholism, a parental divorce, anorexia… People take the liberty of seeing the chair and speculating on it, belittling me, pitying me or letting it define me.

The teary edge to my voice when the phrase leaves my lips isn't false. I'm cutting myself open. I'm revealing something deeply intimate.

"Don't be silly," Rosalie says _icily. _I can count the number of times Rosalie's voice has iced over like that with the fingers on one hand. Even when she's yelling herself hoarse, or giving me the evil eye, there's always an undertone of maternal adoration to her expression. This time, I know I've hit a nerve. The icier the Ice Queen is, the more darkly her wounds have been salted.

I push back what little self-disgust I feel at triggering such an emotion-fest for something as trivial – and yet pressing – as digging for information.

"Then _why_?"

It isn't a struggle to inject the appropriate amounts of deep hurt and whiny indignation into the statement.

The more I think about it, the more I realize I'm being sheltered from whatever they're doing in the forest because I can't _join in_. A part of me can't help but feel pangs of hurt about that; the tears brimming in my eyes become more genuine the more I dwell on their origin.

"I'm not a child," I snap petulantly, tears stinging my eyes.

Rose starts to look exasperated. "We know, Nessie," she says. Her lips are pursed, a nervous gesture.

From the corner of my eye, I see Rose's eyes flit towards the chair, waiting for me underneath the plinth. It's an infinitesimally small movement of her golden iris.

I take in a deep breath in part because she's _stabbed _me with her words and in part because I want to argue back. My hands fist into balls, sweating. My own family is falling into the traps I despise people for falling into.

I'm disabled, not a child.

To which Rose would reply, I realize before I've even opened my mouth, "_exactly._"

What would I be doing, out in the wild? I can't push myself in rocky terrain. The problem isn't a lack of strength. In fact, moving the chair is more about precision. I have to _manage _my strength rather than use it to wheel myself around. The problem is the chair itself, the caster wheels. Until they invent some fancy mobility aid, I won't be able to move around in anything other than flat flooring. Even carpets are difficult.

Even if I could move the _damn _chair, I wouldn't be able to run, jump, hide, squat.

I'd be sitting out in the Jeep, maybe some well-built tree, star-gazing. Everyone else would be more concerned about my wellbeing than the task at hand.

The goddamned thinking is going to throw me into a twisted, dark web of implications that are going to chase away sleep.

I bite my lip so hard I fear blood is going to start tricking out of it. I should've kept my stupid mouth shut.

"We wouldn't keep from taking you places unless we absolutely couldn't," Rosalie says, her expression hard but her eyes gentling. I realize she's finished the exercises on both legs. Very tenderly, she strokes one of my cheekbones. "You know that."

Very tersely, I nod. My lip is still trapped under my teeth, about to start bleeding.

"Let's do a lumbar stretch," I say, to keep from saying anything else. My voice is bleary as I push past the knot in my throat.

When I've turned belly-side up, Rose clamps my legs together. Keeping a hand on my pelvis, she pushes down on the knees, turning them to the side until they hang from the plinth. While she holds the stretch, I'm supposed to keep my shoulders straight on the padded mat. When the stretches are done, she walks away. Her heels click as she retrieves a bolster roll pillow, a fat, cylinder-shaped pillow to put underneath my spine.

"Why can't you take me?" I ask softly.

Are they waging supernatural battle with the stupid bear? Are they out in hunting parties?

Rose's expression is stone as she snakes her arm under my torso to lift it up. I lean up on my elbows to help her slip the pillow underneath, aligning it beneath my spine. When she drops my torso and is done arranging my legs, I stretch my arms out behind my head. The exercise, called a _Thoracic Spine Stretch_, is meant to be done with a couple of pillows. I'm in such great shape that the muscles need a bit more to be worked.

"It's not safe."

When I bring my arms back up from the stretch, I extend one arm towards Rosalie's wrist and leave it there. A cool thing about my pretty dull power (a reversal of my father's extraordinarily useful one) is that I can freeze images, and zoom in on them. This one is blurry not out of terror – in fact, the emotion magnified the bear's every pore – but because I chanced such an infinitesimally small peripheral glance. As the bear approached me, I looked to the leg dangling it near it. It could've crushed the leg with a paw and I wouldn't have noticed. It gave me a glance at its frame.

The bear was _gangly. _The bones were so thinly protected that my knuckles hit the shoulder blades easily. It cracked under the force of the punch fairly easily, considering my knuckles didn't even bruise and the force of the punch was hindered by poor balance. Underneath the tree, its knees were bent and its back was slouched. Whatever fat there wasn't on the rest of his body, a chunk of it hangs in a remarkable pot belly. It could've been in hibernation, or hungry from looking for food, but my point is that he bear was _weak. _It couldn't hurt me, so the chances of it hurting any of them again are pathetically nonexistent.

As Rose listens to the message, her expression transforms, softening to the point that she looks weak. "We know it can't hurt us, Nessie," she says softly in a tinny voice. Her hand reaches out to cup my cheek. "The point is that it could've hurt _you_, and I couldn't… I would've _died_ if something had happened to you."

* * *

><p>Rose and I finished the therapy standing on the parallel bars, with my legs held up by splints and Rose's hands propping up my butt, hips and torso. Midway through, the Brady Bunch came back, breaking the silence of the house like a loud, pissy stampede of the Lion King cast. Daddy came up as soon as he got home, but didn't offer to help. At that point, Rose and I were on one of the exercise balls, doing another back stretch, nearly done. Ever since my breasts popped out of my chest, and an ass popped out of my rear, Daddy stopped setting me up for the RT300. It was the only thing left to do.<p>

Rose leaves after she's glued the electrodes to the places I can't reach – including my ass. Since there are electrodes on my ass, that means I have to cycle on the bike Scottish style, breezing out the pubes. Rosalie covers them with a thong-shaped pair of panties with Velcro, but still. If that weren't the unfortunate case, I'd leave the Bike downstairs to watch ESPN with Emmett.

To make the biking on the RT300 less dull, I always bring up my cellphone and homework.

The cycling can be done from a wheelchair, with the brakes locked. To pass the time, I put a lap tray on the chair – an ingenious desk thingy Emmett built, which clips onto the armrest and the chair seat underneath its I can't even feel the tingling from the electrode, it's a rather dull hour. Doing homework is less of an intellectual challenge than a mindless chore. Midway through breezing by Calculus homework, though, the hour is made awfully interesting.

Tucked between my leg and chair wheel, my iPhone begins to vibrate. Only Daddy, who is apparently stuck in the Stone Age, ever calls me on it. He's opposed to using WhatsApp. I know Daddy's more prudish than a Catholic monk and a little old lady combined, but it's not like my legs are spread open to reveal my uncovered flower. He doesn't need to call me on the phone. He can just come up and talk.

"It's not me!" Daddy yells, irritably.

Shocked, I begin to fumble for my phone so clumsily that my pen rolls down. It rolls down the tray and down my foot, landing underneath one of the metal rods that prop up the front of the bike.

"_Shit,_" I mumble, but let it go. My phone is still ringing, from a non-Daddy caller. Below me, five different versions of "_Language_!" flit up. Emmett says, "Honey, don't cuss," which is the most hypocritical thing I've heard since my father forbid me to date human teenage boys.

"Jesus Christ," I whine, "it's not a big deal!"

Immediately, my grandfather's ever lovingly patient, and ever ignored, reminder not to take the Lord's name in vain flits up. I push the lap tray forward to pick up my phone, pressing the answer button, even as I yell, "Sorry, granddaddy!"

It's an unknown number.

"Hello?"

I have half a mind to hang up on the salesman announcing I won a 10-day vacation in Orlando when…

"Ness, baby?"

Holy mother of fuck, it's Buzz. How the hell did he get this number? I purposefully added him on Instagram but not WhatsApp to keep him from getting any access to my number. When he asks for it directly, I keep reading it out loud as quickly as I can. It's a brilliant technique, because the boy is too proud to ask me to slow down. Rather, it _was _a brilliant technique. I was just outsmarted by Buzz Hemlich.

Good god.

"Why is that son of a bitch harassing her?" Emmett demands loudly, to nobody in particular. Under other circumstances, I'd be inclined to agree. However, Emmett, the only male in this household that can't _tell _I feel harassed if I don't say so, is leading the goddamned cavalry charge.

"He's not _harassing _me, Emmett," I snarl. It's a whisper from my lips turned away from the phone.

In response, Emmett grunts like an angry bull. Like I said, he's a man of few words, and most of them are curses.

When I press the device back to my ear, I sound sweeter than pie. "Hey, Buzz. What's up?"

"Did you think about what I said?" Buzz asks, sounding like Little Orphan Annie asking Daddy Warbucks to adopt her.

His voice does little to help his case. I feel like I've been slapped. It's not like I'm a fan of beating around the bush, but he could've at _least _ask asked about my weekend. My irritation builds hotly in my blood, along with tinges of excitement and a bad case of the "Aaws." I really wonder why Jasper hasn't committed me to a mental institution. A licensed professional would probably interpret my cocktails of feelings as symptoms of an addiction to crack.

"What _did _he say?" Emmett asks grumpily. At the same time, I hear Rosalie snarl, "No, Edward, I have no idea."

Above them, my throat is drying and my heart is pounding.

"We could go watch a movie on Friday," Buzz offers sweetly, sounding goofily insecure. For once in the year that I've known him, he sounds like he's offering something without expecting me to say yes. The self-doubt is endearing, and I have half a mind to say yes, when…

"Absolutely not, he's _human. _It is absolutely unthinkable, and the boy has the most wretched, filthy thoughts…." I snort at the funny sentiment, coming from Daddy, who fathered a child with a Unicorn.

"Do you honestly think I'm going to let some horny little shithead with only half a goddamned brain take you out to some shitty movie theater where he's going to put his shitty hands on ya?"

"Back in my day, a gentleman asked a lady's father before even considering courting her, and this idiot boy..." I don't even listen to Jasper finish. In a couple of minutes, it'll turn into a lecture about the Battle of Gettysburg under General Lee.

My mind has been made.

"That'll be really fun, I'd love to," I lie with such glee I sound convincing even to myself. Below me, my father and Uncles turn into monkeys.

"Ey! Oy! No! Ey! No!" Like I said, Emmett is a man of many words.

"Absolutely not, I forbid it! I'm your father!"

I turn away from the phone to laugh at Daddy.

Jasper opts for the heavy waves of regret I'm feeling in my stomach. In his defense, though, a lot of those are mine. Between the Big Foot guilt and _this, _I won't be able to shut my eyes tonight.

I need to cut this conversation as short as possible, so that Buzz doesn't get any cute ideas.

And I don't lose my nerve.

"But, hey listen, I need to finish the French homework. I'll see you tomorrow during class." I say quickly. "Bye!"

"Alright, baby," he agrees halfheartedly. He sounds confused. That bodes well in my favor. The more confused he is, the easier it'll be to manipulate him tomorrow. "Lov – "

In my fist, I almost crush my phone in an attempt to keep the words from escaping. With vampire speed, I hang up on Buzz.

Holy fuck.


	6. Perks of Tearing a Ligament

Typically, we ride the Jeep to school like one big, criminally insane family. It's the only car big enough to fit six people. Clucking my tongue, I'm rolling my chair back and forth, as I wait someone to carry me up. Technically, I don't _have _to ride the passenger seat if I'm not transferring out of the car myself, but I wanted to. Whatever I want, I get – except were dating is concerned, apparently. Daddy's been stonewalling me all morning. Jasper has been assailing me with emotions like regret, disgust and guilt. Subtle and precise, Jasper is usually good at that. In fact, if it weren't for the guilt, I would think the emotions were mine. It is, however, too early to feel anything. As it is, my eyes are still moist and I'm still groggy.

For his part, Emmett is reinventing what it means to be annoying.

"We're going on the _Volvo_," Emmett grunts at me, as though we're riding donkeys all the way to school. His bad mood can be due to either my impending date or the fact that his vehicle has been hijacked. The latter thing is probably a good idea; I wouldn't put it past Emmett to run over Buzz at his earliest convenience.

Eyes fluttering open with tiredness, I turn to Emmett; I don't bother to turn my chair, just my head. My voice is thick with sleep. At this time of day, I only answer closed questions or grunt in response to open ones. "But the chair doesn't fit on the Volvo if the backseats aren't lowered," I say, confused.

The backrest of the chair folds down, and the wheels pop off, such that it's fairly compact, but it isn't going to fit with six backpacks in the trunk. Even with four bags in the back, the chair wheels have to be put in one of the lowered seats in the back.

"Alice and Jasper are going on the Porsche."

Sucking back my annoyance at my own stupidity, I slowly wheel down the garage corridor to where the Volvo is. Most of the cars we own are awfully inaccessible, with the Volvo second only to the Jeep. If I were driving the Audi by myself, I wouldn't be able to stick the chair in the passenger seat because the backrest can't be lowered on the passenger seat. Where the chair can't go, neither can I.

It's why my family's fits of rage about accessibility strike me as bull. The house itself is a model where accessible design is concerned, and I'm thankful for that, but the point of the matter is that not _everything _can be made accessible. Sometimes, it's a matter of pragmatism. A tiny bookstore that has a hard time making ends meet can't make the corridors wider, simply because it needs the space for shelves. The same holds for any kind of tiny business in a cramped mall, or for cobbled streets in historic villages.

Expertly, Emmett lifts me into the passenger seat. Once he closes the door to break down the chair, I strap in my seatbelt. Since the Volvo's packed closest to the garage door, there's ice crusting the windows and lining the door rims.

"Could I borrow your coat?" I ask sleepily, head bumping against the glass. Within seconds, there's a thick, black coat on my lap. It's big enough to envelop me like a blanket. Before slipping my arms through the sleeves, I fold the hood of the coat to use it as padding. Leaning my head on the nylon, I close my eyes.

Until Daddy starts clearing his throat dramatically, halfway to school.

Daddy is just as bad as an ancient man with Irritable Bowel Syndrome and a teenage boy traumatized by bad acne. He's the epitome of the chronically pissy attitude of the former and the dramatics of the latter. In response to my thought, Daddy huffs dramatically, exhaling air like he's trying to cool down the car with it.

"If you want to talk, you can just use your words, Dad," I say groggily as I snuggle into Emmett's tent-sized jacket. "There's no need to throw a tantrum like a geriatric teenager."

Emmett chuckles and Rosalie laughs. When I do or say something funny, her laugh is different, bathed in maternal adoration and gloating fondness. This is a cold, hard laugh, meant to make fun of the fact she constantly bemoans. Daddy is chronically the moody, acne-ridden (as per Carlisle's description) boy he was when turned. Today, that's been compounded to the crankiness of the senile.

"It's not a tantrum, Nessie," Daddy hisses. "This _date _of yours…"

Christ almighty, here we go again.

"…is an absolutely unreasonable, unsafe idea to which I am absolutely opposed." Behind him, Emmett grunts his agreement.

I groan as I burry my head in Emmett's coat. Daddy's tantrum has been more effective at waking me up than a cup of coffee. I don't feel reinvigorated, though. I feel like a college student, pumped up on Red Bull at 6:00 in the morning, trying to finish a paper before the deadline. I press my hand to my temple and begin to massage.

Rosalie scoffs.

"It's not a date, Daddy," I point out tiredly, like I'm explaining something to a child. "We're just going out to watch a movie."

"That's the very definition of a date, my darling," Rosalie says tartly, but her voice is still sunny with glee and maternal pride.

Usually, Daddy drives like the chauffer in Driving Miss Daisy. That's why I scream out like a cantankerous parrot when Daddy _slams _the breaks.

Immediately, he throws his arm out to brace me from the impact of the hit. Emmett's knees bang against the back of my seat. I shoot out forward, padded arms ready to grab onto the dashboard. In a split second, he checks to see I'm unharmed.

"Daddy, what the hell?" I squeal, suddenly awake.

He ignores me completely. Daddy's expression is thunder when he turns it on Rose. In turn, her beautiful face taunts him, a mocking smile spread across her face.

"She is _not _going anywhere with that boy," Daddy says in a low voice, trembling with rage, "And you're going to stop trying to convince her otherwise, Rosalie. It's none of your business."

The tension in the vehicle suddenly rockets to the moon.

Suddenly, Emmett's coat feels stifling. The state of my cuticles becomes a fascinating subject, and I stare at them avidly – at anything but at the expression on Rosalie's face.

"What about when you _leave_ for three months on end, Edward?" Rosalie says frigidly, her expression irreverent. "Is it not my business then?"

The tension spikes again. The sound of my heartbeat is the only one.

_Fuck. _The word isn't crudely voiced. It lingers in my subconscious, like a paperweight, crushing the emotions swirling underneath it. The word dances on my lips as I struggle to keep from making sound like Rose – and Daddy, both – have delivered physical blows.

I push the door open. With another hand, I unbuckle the seatbelt. My mouth opens, the _fuck _lingering unsaid, as I intend to tell them I'm riding with Jasper and Alice.

Then something does leave my body, barreling up my esophagus and out my mouth. When I stop puking, I see bits of a half-digested banana and clumps of Greek yoghurt spread out on the asphalt. The Greek yoghurt is starting to look like cottage cheese. Just the sight of it makes me gag some more, but there isn't any food left to barf.

Greek yoghurt was thus _expelled _out of the short list of food I can stomach. The sour taste of it, and the texture of the banana, lingers in my mouth, etched forever onto my taste-buds. We had a good run, Greek yoghurt and I.

I gag some more, thinking the glass of milk I had might follow the solids, but it never does.

Next thing I know, a pair of stiletto-heeled Mary Janes join the barf on the ground, tethering on its edge. Gingerly, Rose pushes the hair from my face, caressing it. Daddy's hands are around my waist, keeping me from hitting the ground head first when I lose my balance. Rosalie lifts me up and sits on the edge of the seat.

"Sweetheart, are you alright?" she asks gently, her face and voice contorted with guilt. Earlier this morning, Rose decided to style my hair into a half-ponytail. I bet she regrets that now. Bits of acerbic banana and globs of cottage cheese are resting on the coils that naturally form at the bottom of my hair. With her fingers, Rose picks it off and tosses it out. With the other hand, she strokes my face. "Do you want to go home, love?"

With anger and mortification, my cheeks heat up. Rose's hand, cupping my cheek, does little to cool it off, physically or emotionally.

A bit aggressively, I slap it off my face.

"Let's just go," I snap. My voice is hoarse in the aftermath of barfing. Big, doe-like eyes, the color of a green bottle, have turned glassy with tears.

"Nessie, I don't think that's the best idea," Daddy says gently, pulling a strand of hair behind my ear. From the corner of my eye, I see the glance he exchanges with Rosalie. Their expressions are both _ice_, but their guilt has pushed their rift into a stalemate. "Maybe you should go home and rest, angel."

"This wasn't a stomach bug," I say sharply. "Let's just _go._"

Once Rose caresses my face once more – although it seems like a covert check-up -, she shuts the door. Instead of going straight to her seat, she fishes for something in the back of the trunk. I look back to make sure it's not the chair. Heels clicking in staccato, Rose climbs into the back of the car. Daddy drives on, splotch of vomit forgotten in the asphalt. I barely glance in Rosalie's direction as she hands me a bottle of water. Daddy blatantly spends the rest of the ride searching my face.

I hide anything that there is to find, looking stonily out the window as I take sips of water. At school, the handicapped parking spot is, luckily, empty. One would think that would always be the case, as I'm the only handicapped, wheelchair-confined student, but it isn't.

As soon as Daddy parks, Emmett's door opens.

"Wait," I ask. No longer hoarse, my voice is soft but drained. Behind me, I hear Emmett's door click shut. Slowly, I crane my neck towards Emmett, alternating between looking at him and his brother straight in the eye.

"I think you both owe me the courtesy of letting me _grow up_. This really wasn't a big deal, not until you both blew it out of proportion. So you're both going to put on your big-boy pants, and calm down as I go out and watch a movie with Buzz Hemlich."

Much to my surprise, Daddy and Emmett don't say anything.

* * *

><p>Daddy's little driving stunt, and my ensuing projectile vomiting, meant we made it to school with about twenty minutes to spare. For me, arriving with twenty minutes to spare is what arriving with five minutes to spare is for the fully ambulatory. Nearly ten of those minutes were lost to climbing into the chair and over the snow blizzard outside, and the rest of them were lost to moving the chair through a sea of irritable High School students. People bump against the chair and don't apologize. Backpacks bang me on the head. Boys, especially, grumble in irritation when the chair is in the way. The "big, doe-like eyes" and "delicate little face" mojo only work when people are looking in their direction. At the ass-crack of dawn (and most of the time), people don't look down below eye-level. For every two feet I roll forward, I'm shoved back a couple of inches by some wayward idiot whose knee rolls the chair backwards. There also isn't room for fancy tricks. It's just a forward, one-direction trudging.<p>

I should've waited for the stupid Brady Bunch.

By the time I reach my locker, the hallways are emptying out. Moodily, I take out my Bible for Religious Ed. Last year, the idea of the Adams (Cullen) Family having bibles was so funny I always smiled at the thought. This year, thanks to good Sister Prudence, the Bible feels like she's personally lodged it up my unholy places.

Stuffing the bag between my legs and the chair wheels, I close the locker. I don't dwell on the fact that my hair is sticky with vomit, even if Rose fished the cottage-cheesy globs out of my hair, or on the fact that strands of hair are sticking all over the place like the green top of a pineapple.

Then something does make me take heed and slow down.

From an entire column of lockers away, I hear him sniffing like a little girl. The hallway is empty, allowing me to spin the chair around in his direction. In the staircase that crawls up behind a U-Turn, Nate Crawford is slouching, curled around his own body with his face buried in his hands. One of his legs is stretched out, held in that position by a leg-long brace. The other is bent over one step. His typically tousled honeyed hair looks as messy as a dust bunny, sticking out in the back like Daddy's does regardless of how much gel one sticks in it.

_Good god, man, have some dignity. _

Given my own state, I feel a bit like Emmett should have last night, telling me not to "cuss" – like a pitch-black pot. There _is _vomit fluid crusting my hair, my breath is probably fetid, and strands of my hair are falling all over my face like it's been badly mussed. However, I would rather purposefully shove a cactus up my vagina than wallow thusly in the middle of a corridor, amid ill-willed High School students.

That is exactly what Crawford is doing.

Flippantly, I clear my throat.

Nathaniel – if my mother picked the most ridiculous name since Rumpelstinskin, his mother Julia certainly picked the most pretentious - looks up. Around his blue-colored iris, the whites of his eyes are bloodshot. There are bags around his eyes, made wrinkly by the salt of his tears. The boy didn't even bother to shave his stubble. Is he _stupid_? Does he not know he's surrounded by a sea of merciless vultures? Buzz, his best friend, was _delighted _Nate tore his ligament. Cassidy's eyes zoom into physical flaws, detecting them from miles away. Does it not take one to know one?

"We have class, Crawford," I say. Somewhere between the pull of harshness and of societal norms that dictate crybabies be treated sweetly, my tone of voice comes out like one of Jasper's gentle admonishments. Regardless, my nose is slightly wrinkled and one of my eyebrows is arched. Before spinning the chair around, I add, "You should probably spray water on your face, or something."

Even cocooned by the heat of the building, that sounds like a god-awful idea. To amend for my insensitivity, I roll closer towards him. I stop when the footrests bump against the first step. I open my bag and take out my water bottle.

In my hand, the bottle dangles suspended in mid-air.

Crawford is looking at me like a baby looks at a stranger, rosebud lips parted. I want to smack him again. He looks like an idiot.

"Don't worry," I say, as he takes it slowly. It's like the freakin' Pilgrims making contact with the Native Americans. Good god. I dangle the bottle for him to take faster. "I haven't opened it yet."

Once he has taken it, our eyes meet. I give him a parting grimace.

Very quickly, I back away, and then spin the chair in the direction of the Religious Ed classroom. Because I joined the class (as all students must), the class isn't held in the sacristy or the pews in the chapel. Neither of the two is particularly accessible. Unlike in other situations, I'm sure my classmates thank me. It's hard enough to stay awake for Sister Prudence's lulling lectures without incense blowing up your nose.

Instead of the usual lull of deep breathing and mild snoring, muted conversations are coming out of the English-turned Religious Ed classroom. I _smell _Sister Prudence's absence before I realize it's a physical reality. In her stead, Sister Josephine is at the front of the classroom. I'm actually rather fond of the good Sister Jo, a burly woman with a wide frame to rival Emmett, Jasper's height and a pair of ruddy cheeks. Under her habit are a bunch of frizzy pepper-and-white curls. She finds Alice annoying, which makes me love her all the more.

"Miss Cullen, how nice of you to join us," Sister Josephine says slyly, as soon as I do the pull-and-spin to open the doorway.

"What a bitch," Charlie O'Connell mumbles to the person besides him. "It's not like she can get here any faster."

What I like about Sister Jo is that she isn't _dumb_ about how to treat the matter of my punctuality. She knows that, like everyone else, I can get there on time if I time manage properly, and knows better than to give me a tardy when my tardiness is outside my control. I give her a sheepish, toothy grin in response. I make way to my desk. I share it with Alice, but she is probably restraining my father from tearing Rosalie's head right now;

As I roll into it, I slam my knee against the leg of the table. I know spasms are coming. They always come after the relentless stimuli of being banged on by backpacks and bony knees assail my legs. In my rush to hide the leg spasms under the table, I spin the chair with such imprecision, I hit one knee again. Underneath me, my legs start to spasm, flailing like dead fish flapping, for seconds that drag by.

I look up to see Jo handing me a worksheet. It's a questionnaire on the Book of Job.

"Sister Prudence has the flu, and won't be able to join us for another two weeks."

"Oh, thank the lord," I say.

I say this loudly, like the filter-less, stupid, unstoppable moron that I am.

Around me, cheers and laughs erupt. Immediately, I bury my face in my hands. Blood boils hotly in my entire face, from the tip of my chin to the skin around my temples. Some people start clapping. Amusement twinkles in Jo's eyes before she looks properly affronted.

"We'll talk about the consequences to your disrespect after class, Miss Cullen," Jo says thunderously, but that is just the deep, notable cadre of her voice. I think Banner doesn't like Jo precisely because of it. He wishes his voice had that quality to it.

I nod, chugging down on my lips. The embarrassment is still hot in my face when Nate Crawford barrels in, slamming the door open. A chorus of quiet murmurs erupts behind me when my awful little classmates spot the brace around his knee. Nate looks, much to my relief, slightly better than he did when I saw him wallowing in his misery this morning. At least he's washed the tear-tracks off his face and flattened his tousled hair.

"Crawford, you're late," Jo says, her tone cooling. "Go sit with Cullen. The two of you work on that questionnaire in pairs."

Theatrically, because of course he's Nathaniel Crawford-Kennedy and must always be the center of attention for pity and admiration alike, Crawford hobbles over to my desk. I wouldn't know, but it seems to me he's overdoing it. Regardless, I spin forward as much as the damn chair will let me, to let him pass.

It isn't enough.

The space between my wheelchair and the table behind us is too narrow. The seconds he spends trying to get past my chair are easily the most awkward ten seconds of my entire day. One of his legs ends up lodged in one of the chair's wheels, and the desk behind us scrapes as he stumbles through it. I can feel the entirety of the classroom overtly gazing in our direction. Above me, I can _smell _the blood coursing hotly in the thin membrane of Crawford's skin. The heat of his embarrassment makes my own flare.

While he sits down, I pretend to fish in my Bible for the Book of Job. In my mouth, I'm gnawing on the lid of a black pen. Rosalie stopped buying lidded pens because she _hates _that I gnaw on everything – my lips, my hair, my pens and even my knuckles, if I'm nervous enough. Eventually, sighing like he's fighting back tears, Nate turns around to look for his own school supplies. He groans dramatically.

"Everything's fucked up," he mumbles desperately, his voice cracking at the end of his statement. From the corner of my eye, I see him rest his head on his elbows, massaging his temple with his hand.

Personally, I think the boy would benefit from a good slap in the face. What a fucking baby.

"Cullen?" Nate eventually asks, while I'm flipping through the Bible. I could answer the questionnaire in my sleep – I read the Bible when I was physically three years old, with Granddaddy. "Could I borrow a pen?"

"Sure."

Swallowing, I open my pencil case to see at the assortment of writing utensils in it that make both Alice and Rosalie cringe. All of them, even the Montblanc fountain pen, have tiny teeth marks all over them. The lids on the pens are discolored with the chewing. Blushing delicately, I hand him the one I'm holding in my hand. Jasper lent it to me last week and I haven't gnawed my way through it like a teething toddler.

I take out another one to use myself. It looks like an old dog's chew toy.

"We can share my Bible, too, if you'd like," I offer slyly, edging it towards the center of the desk. Because I was taught it's polite, I keep more than half of it on his side. The self-centered, rude little brat didn't refuse my generosity, like I was taught would be the polite response.

I answered the questionnaire, glancing periodically at the columns of tiny print as if pretending to scan them. My eyes could scan words at 60 words per second – which meant that I could get through the entire Bible in less than half a day. Besides, I had always found the Book of Job fascinating. The questions it posed was a question at the center of my very existence – namely, why does shit happen to non-shitty people? The question posed was enthralling, if the answer Even after years of reading different versions of scripture, my favorite verse in the entire Bible – 42:1-6, Job's Reply to the Lord. I find the entire thing is negated by the prologue, where God was conversing with Satan. In light of that conversation, all of the curses God cast upon Job seem like an attempt to prove a point to Satan. I do idiotic things all the time to prove points to Emmett; I know the psychological symptoms of such a situation. Regardless, though, it's beautifully written, and even then, as I finish reading it, the goose-bumps on my arm have nothing to do with the cold.

"I know that you can do all things;  
>no purpose of yours can be thwarted.<br>You asked, 'Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge'  
>Surely I spoke of things I did not understand,<br>things too wonderful for me to know.  
>"You said, 'Listen now, and I will speak;<br>I will question you,  
>and you shall answer me'<br>My ears had heard of you  
>but now my eyes have seen you.<br>Therefore I despise myself  
>and repent in dust and ashes."<p>

I _feel _his gaze on me before I see him peripherally from the corner of my eye. A delicate blush spreads into the hollow of my cheeks. I remove my index fingers from where it was tracing the words as I whispered the words printed on ink and frail paper. The intensity of his gaze makes me fucking nervous, and I start gnawing on my pen again.

How fucking attractive of me, really, to gnaw on a pencil. A drop of saliva even dribbles down the curve of my lower lip, which dries up like the Sahara because I treat it like a chew toy. Imagining Alice squawking like a parrot, I wipe the saliva off with the cuff of my white uniform shirt.

"That's nice," Crawford says.

"Lord Tennyson said The Book of Job was the most magnificent piece of poetry in ancient and modern times. But yeah, "nice" works, too," I say in deadpan.

My smile is wry, but not mocking.

Crawford tilts his head to the side, studying me curiously.

"It's one of my favorite poems," I tell him quietly. Embarrassment unfurls its way up my cheeks, heating up the entirety of my face. I don't know why I'm sharing that strangely personal piece of information with him.

After that, I'm able to work without further prodding. In my small, fat cursive, I write my answers. I pace myself as I answer the first part. Every now and then, I glance periodically in Lara Treyer's direction. As she's one of my classmates with a working brain, it seems like a good idea to emulate her pacing. The hour ticks by slowly.

Crawford keeps on glancing at me awkwardly, as though he doesn't quite know what to make of me.

Every now and then, his mouth pops open. Crawford then exhales out a puff of cool minty air that has strummed his vocal cords, but isn't shaped into words by his tongue. The interesting thing is that, until now, Crawford has always completely disregarded me. The one time I tried to start polite conversation he was criminally rude. His tone is none all too different from the tone he used when he walked away from me, leaving me feeling stupid and hurt at Cassidy's sweet sixteen. _I have to go somewhere, _he'd said. That somewhere had been the bar for a virgin mojito, leaving me behind to feel stupid and irritated. Towards the end of my own worksheet – Crawford has barely answered the first question on his – Crawford says something.

"You know what this feels like," he growls, voice rough. Crawford's voice cracks at the end.

I inhale sharply. Mind-numbing idiocy and self-centeredness _were _to be expected of Julia Crawford's offspring. The moment we just shared could be considered poignant, and yet Crawford destroyed it by showing less sensitivity and empathy than most five-year-olds. Massaging each temple with four fingers, I shut my eyes.

"Explain that, to me, please," I say tersely, working hard to remind myself that he _is _the offspring of Julia Crawford, in turn fathered by a neo-Nazi and mothered by Betty Crocker.

Crawford's inches his chair closer towards me. The wheels on my own chair cut him short.

I purse my lips.

It dawns on me that he isn't as stupid as I thought he was; the poignancy of our Movie Moment wasn't lost on him. Perhaps the literary significance of Job's Reply didn't escape through the holes of stupidity perforating his brain like Swiss Cheese.

"I've lost _everything_," Crawford says, his voice saturated with anguish.

However, the boy _is_ comparing a lifetime in a wheelchair to a couple of torn ligaments. My legs have to be kept clamped together by a Velcro strap, for crying out loud. I don't even resist the urge to roll my eyes. My fingers on my temples fall from them, tugging at the skin as if to rip it off. I sigh exasperatedly.

When I turn around to look at Crawford, he's slack-jawed. Anger is brimming hotly in his blue eyes.

"You're not taking me seriously," he spits at me, in an accusatory tone.

"Because you sound like a sixth grader asking Mom to buy him a cellphone because _everyone _has one," I snap. The girl I'd been at Cassidy's sweet sixteen is gone, rearing her pathetic head every now and then to swoon when Buzz cups her cheek. "What exactly do you mean you lost _everything_?"

"I can't play football anymore, not this season," he tells me intensely, his voice saturated in angst. Tears gather at the brink, but he sucks them back with manly bravado. "I have nothing to put on my college application – "

Before he finishes his sentence, I slap four fingers against his lips. They feel, 15-year-old me notes, surprisingly silky, soft and warm under the pads of my fingers. "Do you _enjoy _playing football or are you just playing for a résumé filler?"

Under the pads of my fingers, his mouth opens in protest, but nothing comes out. I remove my hand from where it assaulted his face, focusing on the way his eyes flit back and forth as he ponders on my question. The more he formulates his answer, the clearer the unspoken answer becomes.

Swimming for me is like conjuring the thrill I felt as a little girl, opening the battalion of Christmas presents left under the tree just for me. The simple joy of it just bursts through my every pore, mixed with a sense of focus and "zen" that would make a Tibetan monk jealous. When Crawford plays football, he looks like a well-prepared albeit talentless student forcing himself to get through a Calculus exam. It probably explains why he's so mediocre at it. It feels cruel to point that out, so I keep my mouth shut.

The shrill ring of the bell interrupts our brief tête-à-tête. It sends Crawford into a panic, and the words tumble out of his mouth in a desperate rush.

"It doesn't matter anymore," he mutters darkly. "Yale won't take me, anyway."

I mull over the tone of his voice. It sounds defeated, but there's a stronger undercurrent of hesitance in it. Annoyed, I shrug my shoulders and give him a grunt. He's answered his own question.

I shove my chewing utensils and my Bible into my purse-pack, and then arch my arms backwards to hang it from the back of the chair. My torso won't twist for me.

Crawford's unwavering gaze never leaves my hands, blue eyes following my every movement. I realize he expects an answer.

"Listen, Crawford," I finally say. By the tone of my voice, I half-expect myself to reach out and grasp him by the collar. "Look at this as an opportunity in disguise. You just admitted to not enjoying football. So stop moping, put on your big boy pants and go find something you enjoy. Give Yale, or Princeton or wherever it is, a better reason to take you than the fact that you're a legacy kid and you're paying full-tuition."

Impatiently, I shove his chair backwards, pressing the heels of my hands on his seat to indicate he should scoot. I won't have enough leg room to spin my wheelchair out of the desk with him breathing down my neck. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, Nate automatically agrees, rising to his full height. Luckily, that gives me enough legroom to spin the chair around in a 3-point turn and dart out of the room. The entire first row has vacated, and Jo is gathering her stuff at the front of the room.

"And try not to mope around too much," I add, gentling, "especially around all these vultures."

It takes every ounce of self-control in my body not to add that it's tragically pathetic.

* * *

><p>"Do you want to share what you did with Aunt Rose?" Daddy demands petulantly. He looks like he's been sulking all morning.<p>

Today, I chose to sit with them after many apologies to Simon, whose glare I can feel burning on my back. During break, he accepted my heartfelt apology about ditching him with so much stiffness he might not have accepted it all.

On the other side of the spectrum, Buzz Hemlich is waving at me like a star-struck 1950s schoolgirl. The fact that I'm sitting next to Emmett is probably what's helping him keep his distance.

My chair is parked at the head of the table and I'm eating something Rose probably snuck out of class to pack-up back at the house. It's all stomach-friendly food: peeled up apple cut into chunks, sprinkled with lemon to keep it from turning brown; slices of a raisin wheat bread Nana bought at a French bakery in Manhattan over the weekend; and potato salad with paprika.

I wonder why Daddy's referring to her as anything but her name; they looked like they were ready to rip each other's throats out. Swallowing a small bite of peeled apple cubes, I give Rose a toothy, sheepish grin.

"What did you _do_?"

I take a dainty little bite of the apple I'm holding with two fingers. "Sister Josephine told me that Sister Prudence had the flu and wouldn't be able to join us for the next two weeks, and then – by accident - I said, 'Oh, thank the lord.'"

Everybody laughs Even Rose cracks a small smile, eyes twinkling with amusement, raising her fingers to run them down my cheek with gloating adoration. The only person that doesn't laugh is Daddy. According to Dumb & Dumber, though, Daddy's always had a difficult sense of humor (or the lack thereof).

Done with the food, I decide to leave.

Before I push the chair out of the nook in the table, though, I chance a series of worried glances at Simon. He's sulking like a petulant toddler through bites of food, chancing glances at me through his mop of long, honeyed brown hair.

"Is he _really _mad at me?" I ask of Daddy with a worried wince, instinctively biting my lip.

Daddy huffs as if he's been asked an offensive question – like 80-year-old women that don't want to talk about their age. The stray thought doesn't help my case, and he glowers at me. If there was blood in his face, he'd be purple. Wearing that expression, Daddy shrugs his shoulders. I presume the gesture is meant to look casual, and looks tortured only because Daddy is facially emulating a constipated infant.

In thanks, I flash my dimples and tiny teeth at him. Typically, I don't thank him for giving me what I want – why would I? – but Daddy softens in response. When I finally maneuver the chair of the table, Daddy looks like he's passing gas. At least he isn't wearing the expression that tells me he's battling his personal brand of high blood pressure. Satiated, I blow everyone a kiss.

Like a pedestrian crossing the street, I wait for the caf to clear before zipping diagonally in my best friend's direction. Hope flashes in Simon's face before his face turns affronted. Instead of sticking the chair inside the table, I spin it so one of the wheels is touching the bench where he's sitting down.

The boy in front of him, his best friend when I'm not there, Alex, goes into shock every time I come near them. I used to find it cute that he took a minute to answer a direct question. Now, I just find it annoying.

Around Alex, the table of geeks Simon hangs out with is staring at me in awe. Bits of tomato sauce are dribbling down one of their mouths. The only girl in the mix, one with horse-like facial features, frizzy black hair and beady blue eyes concealed by ugly, black-rimmed round glasses, glares at me. The little freak hates me vocally and spends her free time trying to convince Simon that I'm the antichrist. I smile at her like I pity her.

She shows me her beaver teeth like she thinks its intimidating.

I ignore the whole freak show, turning only to my best friend.

"Hey," I say softly.

Simon pointedly turns his head towards Albert, whom I nicknamed Piggy. Last time I tried to speak to the unfortunate boy in an act of kindness, the rolls of fat around Piggy's face became damp with perspiration, and his oversized school Oxford clung to his body. I'd asked him for a pencil. Instead of giving me one, he told me that the weather was nice. I stopped trying since.

With my index finger, I stroke the raised bone on Simon's wrist. In bursts that last less than a millisecond each, I flash images of myself in the hospital; pulling up my legs into the MRI machine, and Carlisle flashing a light into my eyes, the sight of his fingers prodding my bruises. It always works as a tool to manipulate humans; their conscious brains don't process the image but their subconscious does. Coca-Cola tried it in an advertising campaign eighty years ago, and the ensuing desire to have a coke caused a stampede.

"I'm so sorry," I say quietly, voice genuine with emotion. "I really tried to make it."

I continue stroking the raised bone of his wrist, noticing happily that he isn't snatching his hand out of my reach. He tilts his chin-up, like Rosalie does when she looks at humans with disgust, but then lets out a defeated breath.

"You owe me," he says angrily, "and big time."

I beam. "I do," I agree heartily. "And I'll make it up to you."

Grabbing onto one arm rest to not lose my balance, I scoot my ass closer to the edge of the wheel where it meets the table bench. Then I crane my neck towards him. It isn't spontaneous – nothing I ever do involving my whole body is – but Simon still looks a bit dazed once I press a tiny little kiss to his cheek. At that point, it's upturned into a smile and my lips land on Simon's left dimple.

"I'll see you in History," I say, chirpy with my own success. It takes a couple of turns to maneuver the chair out of its position; the wheel gets lodged on the table bench, but I spin backwards and manage to unhinge it.

"Where are you going?" Simon asks as I do all of this.

"To, erm, my locker," I say, a hint of sheepishness in my voice.

At this point, Simon probably knows I don't pee like a normal person would. Every lunch period, I sacrifice twenty minutes – nearly half the lunch period – to peeing. On Friday, my after-school incursion into the bathroom was a bit of an emergency, as I'd gone eight hours without peeing. The only thing in my knapsack right now is one of the urine-bag catheters, with the bag portion of it smelling heavily of bleach.

Sometimes, my own body makes me want to puke more than the greasy spaghetti and meatballs Piggy is stuffing into his face.

* * *

><p>The hallways are empty as I roll out of the girl's bathroom, catheter and urine bag packed up in my knapsack.<p>

My locker isn't.

Buzz Heimlich is sitting in front of it, knees bent to his chest and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. In that instant, my eyes locked onto the ridges of his forearms, the combination of protruding muscles and adorning veins. I see them in excruciating detail from the length of the hallway; I see his blonde hairs glistening under the fluorescents and the shadows on his cheek made by the aquiline bridge of his nose.

Seconds later, I hear the tinny _Flappy Birds _song.

Well, that was anti-climactic.

Mentally, I slap myself for describing somebody's body like Danielle Steele watching soft-core porn.

The closer I get to him, the more nervous I become. It no longer has to do with the fact that, when he isn't acting like a renegade Backstreet Boy, his touch makes my heart flutter. It has to do with the fact that there's marinara on the collar of his shirt, we've never discussed anything other than Football playoffs, and I willingly agreed to go watch a movie with him. I want to gnaw on something, but my hands are otherwise occupied pushing me forward.

"Hi," I say, locking the chair brakes. There's a forced smile on my face. I hope it doesn't look like a grimace. What I want to say is, "Move, Hemlich," but the boy doesn't know I was coerced into Friday night by an unsuspecting Emmett Cullen.

Buzz looks up from _Flappy Bird _and his face lights up. In that light of that, my smile turns genuine. My inner Daniel Steele is resurrected by my inner 15-year-old girl, delighted in the way he reverently whispers my name. The slanted pair of blue eyes I find off-putting is starting to look attractive.

"I need to get my books," I say, for lack of something better to say.

Buzz scoots aside. Although he's no longer looking at the game, Faby the flappy bird is still at risk of crashing against green pipes. The tinny music grates on my nerves. I roll forward until the tap of the footrest stops me. Using just my shoulder muscles, I lean forward to open the combination lock.

Apparently I'm the only one that feels the surge in awkwardness, because Buzz rises and immediately starts playing with my hair. Rose fixed it between classes this morning, and the top looks immaculate, but a couple of the coils that form at the bottom are crusted together with dried up vomit. Buzz doesn't seem to mind, running his fingers through the silky tresses from the emerald-colored ribbon to the coils cascading past the strap of my bra.

It's going to be an _awful, awful _date, I think with dread, gnawing on my lower lip. Even Buzz is going to notice the long stretches of unbreakable awkward silence as we realize we have nothing in common.

To make matter worse, there is the bone-crushingly mortifying aspect of logistics. Dread has been slowly creeping into my subconscious and nagging at it. It's very easy for Buzz to romanticize having a wheelchair-bound girlfriend when all he's ever done is push her down the hallway. What is he going to think when he has to pull me up over unfortunately placed curbs? When we have to go around the mall for the elevator? When he has to stay at the bottom row in the cinema near the handicapped spot, or carry me up to a better one?

Slowly stuff my French workbook into my purse, along with a catheter and a barely rinsed urine bag. The latter two inside a zip-lock bag, but the stench permeates out of the plastic pores and into my vampire nose, even though I rinsed them twice with water. If I keep them in the locker now, the stench builds and clings on to my notebooks. It reminds me of the kind of disgust and regret Buzz is going to be feeling as of Saturday morning.

Buzz's fingers in my hair are making me uncomfortable. A good dosage of old-fashioned fear of murderously jealous vampires might get him to drop the hair as if I had informed him that I puked on it this morning.

"My brothers are going to be a little difficult," I say. It sounds like a nervous chortle.

Buzz chuckles. "That'd be such a change," he says.

My irritation keeps building as Buzz pushes me down the hallway, which on the upside allows me to gnaw on my hands. By the time we reach the French classroom and Buzz slams one of my knees against the threshold, human knuckles would be bloodied by my teeth's attack. Clumsily, Buzz turns the chair around – having to push it back and forth three times –before getting it through the threshold. The entire minute, instead of gnawing on them, I clench my knuckles.

Apparently, the lord's flu also knocked out Sister Adrienne, the French teacher. There's a substitute teacher at the front, wearing the brain-dead expression of those that have given up hope. In front of her, there is a barrage of sleepy, well-fed and sugar-high teenagers. Directly in front of Buzz and I is a television, indicating we're about to watch Dora the Explorer's French counterpart for the next 50 minutes.

"I can get it from here," I say, biting my urge to snap. It takes a great degree of precision to maneuver the chair into one of the tiny little desks. Clueless as ever, Buzz takes the desk to my left, even though Rosalie usually sits there.

When Rosalie gets there, a minute before the bell announces she should be in her seat, the sour expression on her face is replaced by an enthusiastic beam. Giggling like a training bra owner, my 90-year-old Aunt waves frantically at Buzz. Befuddled, he waves back at her. He gives her a nervous smile, like we give Bob, the crazy hippie that dwells by the interstate. _It's better to smile at you than to risk your lunatic breakdown_, Buzz's confused smile says.

I slap my hand against my forehead.

Daddy wanted me to be accompanied at all times by a family member. My family member waves at Buzz all the way to her seat, like an over-enthused hockey mom waving at her winning son during a tournament.

I bet he regrets that now.

Rosalie takes her seat in a faraway desk. Oblivious to basic social cues, she turns her attention to us as though we're a scene from the _Days of Our Lives. _She gives me encouraging smiles, waving at Buzz again like a gloating soccer Mom.

"Sweetheart, this is so exciting," she gushes in a low voice. At that point, I shape my hand into a gun and press it against my temple.

People wonder why she and Emmett are together.

I think it's because they're both criminally obtuse to the discomfort of other people.

"Alright, children," the substitute drowns in a nasal voice. I fight the urge to giggle. "We'll begin by calling row, and then we'll watch _Les Choristes. _Atlee, Brittany?"

Next to Rosalie, blonde Brittany raises her hand. Beauregard, Timothy, follows.

"Cullen, Isabella?"

I raise my hand. Nobody pays me any mind as the rest of the class follows. The school already overcame the drama of my aversion to my legal name.

"You OK, babe?" Buzz asks, bringing me back down to reality. The substitute has dimmed the light, and has just concluded a short battle against the obsolete DVD player. Apparently she won; French, far too complex for our class, has now joined the soft murmurs of chatter. Most of them can barely say, "Bone-yor. Yay maple John."

I release my bottom lip from where I'd trapped it under my teeth, gnawing on it.

"Yeah," I say distractedly, softly. "Just watching the movie."

I try to, anyhow.

It's a good movie, but I can't bring myself to watch it. My eyes keep flitting away from the blue halo of the TV screen and into the back of the room.

My big, green and gold-speckled irises land on the attendance sheet at the head of the table. My eyes zoom past the tally the substitute has started to indicate the passing minutes. I can see the ink splotches where my name is printed out. I-S-A-B-E-L-LA –R.- C-U-L-L-E-N. My first birth-certificate, the one with my little foot stamped on it and issued by the State of Washington, reads "Isabella Renesmee Cullen," as have all of my documents thereafter. Once my chaotic first days of life – and the tragedies of them – had let the family think, someone thought it would be a good idea to honor my mother by naming me after her. Daddy, torn between the desire to honor her last wishes and the desire to honor _her_, never made up his mind. Sometimes, he _will_ call me Isabella, and I wonder if he's completely _there_ when he does. Without parental recognition of any name, the family turned to Emmett's simple, catchy nickname, and it stuck as my name.

Contrary to what I thought would be the case, I end up grabbing my notebook. I flip past pages of half-assed verbal conjugations and vocabulary notes, most of them accompanied by sketches of the concept in question. I open a fresh page, write the date in French, and begin to sketch.

In a lot of ways, I sketch myself.

I draw a face shaped like mine, different by imperceptible but beautiful asymmetry at the height of the cheekbones. One of them is slanted leftwards, making the cheek underneath it broader. Both of my cheeks, my contrast, rise like symmetrical, ruler-drawn lines from the same point near the bridge of the nose.

I draw a dainty, delicate pert nose, with hook-shaped nostrils. One of them is bigger than the other, making the cartilage on the tip of the nose appear rounder. I draw the ridge in between the tip of the nose and its bridge, which makes the nose look slightly upturned, more so in her face than mine.

I draw the circular path drawn by the brow bone and the cheekbone, which creates the illusion of big, round eyes. I make the left eye in this drawing imperceptibly bigger, a flaw absent in my own face. I draw a deeper-set plane where the inner-eye meets the nose. Carefully, I draw a set of thick, dark eyelashes, lighter and less well-defined like mine. Where mine are tall, black soldiers rigidly aligned, hers are willows, scattered unevenly at the end of the eyelid.

She looks exactly like I do.

To my father, who probably studied her in intricate detail, down to every last individual eyelash, the resemblance must be the most striking. Nature took all of her features and copied their distinctive traits – the shape of her upper lip as the two curves met underneath her nose, the plumper bottom lip, the imperceptible dimple at the tip of the nose, the shell of her ear – into my face.

She also looks nothing like me.

It's the root of my surprise when I feel Buzz's breath close to my neck. Earlier, he moved his chair closer to mine. I heard it scraping against the linoleum, but it did little to break my focus. I keep a picture of my parents on their wedding day on my bedside table. This, I drew from memory.

"Is that …?"

"My mother," I say, in a flat, emotionless voice. Buzz's voice is gentler than it is curious, and his nod is one of satisfaction, not an attempt to process the information to then receive more. That's what impels me to add, from somewhere deep inside my entrails, that, "She passed when I was very little."

It is common knowledge in town that my birth-parents are out of the picture; Emmett, Alice and I are siblings, adopted by Dr. Cullen and his wife. Daddy isn't anywhere in my features; the vampire my mother might have been could have undergone mitosis, except for a pair of emerald, gold-speckled eyes. Coming from my own lips and not idle gossip, it feels like very intimate information I just laid out for Buzz to see.

Buzz says nothing. What I expected was some sort of adjective to describe her, some sort of comparison to me, a statement of the obvious. Instead, Buzz squeezes my shoulder very gently with his broad palm, and shoves his chair backwards a little.

"It's interesting, watching you draw," he admits. "You make faces."

Instantly, I blush deeply. "You stick out your tongue," he tells me. He doesn't sound mocking. After seconds of processing this, I realize he sounds playful.

"You know," I reply sardonically. "My life ambition is to look like a Labradoodle."

"That sucks," he says. "You'd make a good artist."

Covertly, I smile. His statement warms me up from the inside out.

"I'd make a good anything, Hemlich," I say playfully. It embarrasses me that I actually believe it. Other than his eyes and his temper, I inherited relentless arrogance from my father. I just pray to the lord I didn't inherit the bouts of OCD, the unwavering hypochondria, maniac-depressive behavior and stalker tendencies. At this rate, though, I'm exhibiting behavior for all but one – the hypochondria, in which case I'm acting like the complete opposite.

"Especially something that needs humility, Cullen," he retorts, showing unprecedented wit. I'm actually pleasantly surprised. "Like a nun, or something."

I ask him if he's ever met Sister Caroline, the English teacher. Or the entirety of our faculty, really. The rest of the post-lunch period passes by in that surprisingly easy, witty banter.

By the end of the period, through no effort of his own, Buzz convinces me. He helps me find better reasons to go have a movie and share a milkshake, like some bad Grease musical, than to annoy my father into a premature death.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Big, big thanks to Nise7465 for all her work with this story! She is an absolutely fantastic beta (if a slightly mischievous, and tardy-prone, rabbit-like woman). She understands what that means.

Out of idle curiosity, a question to the readers:

Even though this is a Nessie-centric story, and the pairing is there by necessity - this story is about Nessie coming of age as much as it is about Nessie finding love. Jake is a big part of this story. What are your thoughts on Jake? Are you a fan?


	7. Awkward Sweetness of the First Date

**The Awkward Sweetness of the First Date **

"I don't really see the point of all this," I tell Alice as she assembles the chair.

She, Rose and I rode to Montreal at 3:15 this afternoon. Earlier this morning, Rose covertly told me to get into the BMW. If she was aiming for speed, the Porsche would've been better. I didn't say anything, however. Firstly, Rose would've skinned me alive, and second, the "sacrifice" of speed over size made me uncomfortable. Only the foldable body of my chair fit in the trunk of the Porsche; the wheels had to go in the lowered backseat. Even tiny Alice wouldn't comfortably fit stuck in the back with my chair. While she didn't mind, it made me uncomfortable to have her riding in the back like a stowaway. With the chair comfortably in the trunk of the BMW, we rode to Montreal, where Alice's stylist, a man by the name of Jacques, styled my hair.

Alice yammered on for 30 minutes about why it was absolutely _imperative _that Jacques style my hair. Now, my mahogany hair is hanging straight - like a ramrod - from a high-ponytail, accompanied by a deflated pompadour. It looks good. According to Alice, if Jacques hadn't thoroughly hydrated it before applying heat, I'd go bald before my 100th birthday.

I doubt her reasoning.

"You could've easily – " I recline the seat and push it backwards "- done this at home - " I fling my legs out of the car, gripping the Velcro strap "- without spending more money." Comfortably in the chair, I roll away from Alice and past the hood of the car.

"It was your first date, darling," Rose says lovingly. "Of course we weren't going to spare any expenses."

Rolling my eyes, I grab the shopping bag in her hand. It contains my 'date' shoes. Much to Alice's chagrin, I can't wear stilettoes on a regular basis. It's a bit of a balance hassle when transferring in an out of the chair, and the heels get caught in the footrests. It is, I think, one of those other cruel ironies of being physically useless for all intents and purposes.

The bag in my lap contains two ankle boots covered by brown suede, with a low fat stump, by Manolo Blahnik.

I roll into the elevator and wait to be carried upstairs.

Some sort of divine intervention – and a hungry stomach – prompts me to exit the elevator in the first floor. With the bag still in my lap, I wheel to the kitchen. I grab a granola bar from one of the lowered cabinets. Keeping the opened thing clamped delicately between my teeth, I roll out of the kitchen, past the foyer, and into the living room.

"Oh, sweet lord."

I spit out the granola bar.

Over the ninety years of his vampire existence, Emmett has collected a variety of hunting trophies. The majority of them are now on display - furskins, stuffed animal heads, ivory tusks, an assortment of antlers and a motherfucking _white shark denture_. I find it a bit disgusting – like normal humans collecting apple cores and chicken bones. But of course, we're not normal. I was born into the highest concentration of criminal insanity outside a looney-bin.

Otherwise, a _horned elephant head_ would not have been hanging above the mantelpiece in the chimney.

"What the _hell_?"

Emmett is in front of the elephant, stroking the ivory horn with his sausage-like fingers, like a coach dusting his first trophy. "Isn't he beautiful?" Emmett sniffs, as though there are actual tears in his eyes, "…hunted him in Cameroon in '89 before the African Elephant was declared an endangered species by the CITES Appendix A..."

I whimper.

The idiot that is my Uncle mistakes my whimper of horror for a gasp of admiration. Encouraged, Emmett starts prattling on about the Bengal tiger hide draped across the sofa, the bear hide that has replaced the Persian rug, and the glassy-eyed deer flanking the Cameroon Elephant.

I barely register this.

"_He, he, hee, hee..._" I start to chant, spitting out bursts of air. _  
><em>

I start to fan myself with my hands, like a clapping, mentally-challenged seal. The air doesn't make it past my clogged, panic ridden nostrils.

"Darlin', these animals are all dead," Jasper says, popping out of nowhere, "They can't hurt you."

In his hands, Jasper cradles a goddamned 6-foot musket like a newborn baby. Only then did my anxiety-impaired eyes fall on the hunting rifle _beneath _the stuffed kill. Jasper collected guns and "taught me to shoot like the best of 'em in the Panhandle." The gun he taught me to shoot with, a classic Remington, adorns the hunting rifle, flanking it.

"Gah," I gasp in horror.

"Honey, you know how to work a gun," Jasper says in a soothing voice. "I taught you to shoot like you'd been raised in the Panhandle."

I spin around to face him so quickly the rubber tires screech like a hyena against my Nana's hardwood floors. I generally try to be careful with the chair in Nana's house. I keep the tires clean (or Emmett does, but that's a technicality). I spin it carefully around the cherry-wood. I'm careful.

Apparently, I was also needlessly considerate.

The woman has apparently lost all concern over the state of her décor. If she allowed Emmett and Jasper to turn her house into some tacky hunter's cabin owned by rich orthodontists, then I might as well have emptied my catheter's urine bag on the handsomely upholstered dining hall chairs.

To make matters worse, Jasper and his partner-in-crime had decided to bring back the 1990s boy-bands look and crank it up with style pointers from ex-cons. Dumb & Dumber are both wearing tight-fitting black shirts that hug every curve of their bodies. Emmett's muscles looked like a pile of floating boulders.

Like he's the frigging dude from My Giant.

"I'm not scared of the gun, you stupid _moron,_" I hiss furiously at Jasper, turning red in the face from an inability to breathe.

Jasper's brow furrows in confusion.

"What the hell is this?" I cry like a maniac, clawing at Jasper's black shirt like a vicious alley cat. Grabbing a fistful, I tug at it as hard as I can. My strength is such that I'm disappointed that it doesn't tear. Jasper stumbles forward more out of shock than at the force of my inertia.

"Er, I _think _it's a Ralph Lauren," Jasper says sheepishly, scratching his mop of blonde curls. "Your Aunt picked it out, I can't be –"

"Not the shirt, you _idiot_!" I wail, waving my hands like a witch cursing his bloodline. A wayward hand accidentally slapped Jasper across the shoulder. Even though it probably felt like a caress from a kitten, Jasper looks wounded. "This circus! The guns! The evidence to the fact that Emmett might be some sort of underworld animal trafficker!"

Nana has emerged from her study. "Nessie, sweetheart, I tried to tell them they were being silly…"

Dumb & Dumber stare at me like I have gone stark-raving mad. I'm red in the face, like a Pacific Red apple. My glassy green irises are ricocheting inside my eyeball, like a pinball machine gone insane. Some bizarre noise is coming out from deep in my entrails, sounding uncannily like a Lamaze class chorus.

Jasper is still in my grip, looking as terrified, as if I pose a genuine threat to his safety. Behind me, I heard my Aunts' heels clicking in a rhythmic staccato, Alice's step less forceful than Rosalie's. The second the living room came into view, their purses tumbled to the ground like a tower collapsing. Letting go of my blonde Uncle, I spin my chair towards my Aunts.

"Emmett!" Rosalie snarls, sounding more like his mother than his wife. I'm glad we're on the same page were her husband's (lack of) maturity is concerned.

"Can't you _control _your husbands?" I demandd, in a low, frosty voice.

Pointing one perfectly manicured finger, she stalks towards him, swaying her hips in the process. "I _told _you that if you made this difficult for Nessie I wouldn't sleep with you for a _week._"

"Baby!" Emmett protests. Inside, I die.

My Aunt uses sex as a tool to manipulate your Uncle. How life-affirming.

How _nasty. _

"Rose, baby, don't be like that. You know it's important..."

Holy lord in heaven, ew.

"...for the little shit to know Ness is well-protected – "

"_Well´protected_?" I screech, like an insane banshee.

Very abruptly, I'm overcome with such calm I might have been hit with a tranquilizer dart.

"If anything, he's going to see I live among criminally insane lunatics and decide to rescue me from it," I say very calmly.

When I caught my expression glistening on a glass vase, I saw my eyes look glassy, and my expression, drowsy. The fog of rage had lifted. I saw everything clearly; the stuffed animals, the weaponry, and the ridiculous t-shirts.

Suddenly, I start to laugh.

I start to laugh like a maniac, so hard tears start to fall out of my eyes and my abdomen would hurt if I could feel it. I'm laughing like Ursula in the Little Mermaid as she emerged as one whale-sized octopus from the bottom of the sea.

"Jasper, I think you overdid it," Alice says.

"No, he didn't," I said. My tone had the calm typical of insane villains as they reveal their master plan. "He just helped me realize that _obviously _Buzz shouldn't come here, that's all."

Dumb and Dumber stare at me, slack-jawed. "Darlin', that's completely inappropriate. In my day, a gentleman would – "

"This isn't 1865," I say calmly, like I have ingested three days' worth of Prozac in one go. If I ever get drunk, this is what I'm going to sound like. Or if I ever turn into a psycopath.

"Buzz _was _going to come pick me up here, but we can easily change plans. I'll just meet him at the restaurant."

I ignore the sudden sense of doubt assailing me as I roll towards the elevator, and waited for it to come down. With my Aunt's help, it wouldn't be difficult to get the ball rolling.

"See what you've done, you big oaf," Rosalie snaps at her husband, slamming her palm against his shoulder. It sounded like thunder clapping.

In the meantime, Alice nestled herself behind the chair, accompanying me upstairs while promising to upbraid Jasper. I was thankful she didn't mention anything about withholding sex. It's bad enough to hear Emmett protesting on behalf of the "health of the Bold Avenger."

Mother of god.

It is 6:00 PM. It is exactly an hour before Buzz is scheduled to pick me up.

With Alice's help, it takes little to no time to get dressed, into an emerald-colored corduroy dress and thick stockings. There was no way I was exposing my bare legs. My apprehension has nothing to do with the weather. While Rose bickers with her husband, Alice puts finishing touches on my hair and smothered my lips with gloss.

"You should stop biting your lips," Alice scolds me for the umpteenth time. "Their shape is gorgeous and the color is lovely. I shouldn't have to put gloss on them." Because of all the lip biting, they looked more pale than pink, dotted with grass-like patches of skin. Since I get the same remark at least twice every day, I just laugh.

I laugh apprehensively, aiming to hide the fact that I'm growing anxious. Sweaty palms gripping the comforter, I wait for Alice to finish applying the gloss. Now that Jasper is too busy hijacking Rose's volatile emotions, my own emotions are flying off the handle.

The main one is _relief, _battling short-lived irritation. Sure, Rose would drop me off, avoiding the first moment of awkwardness. Then what? Although Buzz hasn't said anything about the location of the restaurant, I know the plan is to go out to dinner and then to watch a movie. Over the past five nights, I'd been running over different scenarios in my head. Very few of them didn't end with death-inducing awkwardness.

Most of restaurants in the area spaced out their tables, which meant I didn't have a hard time maneuvering my chair through them. But what if he took me to one of the cozier, fancier places, stuffed with tables? The issue wasn't that it would be impossible to clear a path out for my chair. It was the stifling awkwardness that would result from the cumbersome, awkward process of clearing it out. Nearly every restaurant in the area didn't have a wheelchair ramp, and those that did didn't have them over each and every little step. "Accessible" doesn't mean "easily-usable for wheelchairs." "Accessible" means "I complied with a couple of the requirements necessary to accommodate one." It means I stuck some metal bars on a regular-sized toilet seat.

At some point, Buzz would have to pop a wheelie for me. I'd tried to calm my nerves by telling myself that he'd insist on pushing me anyway, but Buzz had never pushed me outside the length of St. Marge's lengthy, flattened out hallways.

I'd accepted to go on this date to prove to myself Buzz could find me desirable. By the end of it, I was going to be as desirable as a 90-year-old with saggy tits and flatulence.

In short, in any of the restaurants I could think of, getting in with a wheelchair was like pulling teeth. Mr. Hemlich's contempt-ridden stare kept flitting past my brain, like a relentless alarm clock. The cranky old man reminded me that not even his clueless grandson would escape how incredibly _annoying _it was to go out with a wheelchair. Overall, it helped my attitude that I didn't know what it was like to _not _go out with one. At first, my family had used strollers, then a kiddie wheelchair, and then an adult one.

Frustration suddenly bubbled over, so intensely tears started to prickle my eyes as Alice finished putting my shoes on.

"Is everything OK, Nessie?" Alice asks, as she rises from helping me put my shoes on.

"Yeah," I lie through gritted teeth, wiping tears off aggressively with my fist. "I'm just pissed at Emmett and Jasper."

"Their stunt downstairs wasn't going to work," she tells me with a wink, tapping her forehead with one of her dainty fingers. "Trust me."

I snort. "You're lying."

"I'd never lie," she promises. "Everything is going to be fine."

* * *

><p>"How was your <em>date<em>?" my best friend says, grimacing at the last word. He hands me a homemade Cherry coke and sticks a bucket of M&Ms between the two of us. Simon and I are in his house, at a sort of den in the garage. I've never seen the rest of the house; there's a veritable flight of stairs from both, the garage and the porch to the main foyer. The two of us bonded over a mutual love of the Rolling Stones and the Dire Straits. Ever since, I've been coming over to listen to his father's vintage tapes of MTV from the 80s or play Guitar Hero on a Wii Console as old as I am.

I take a yellow M&M and stick it in my mouth. "It wasn't a _date_," I say, matching his expression by wrinkling my nose. "We just went out for dinner and had a movie."

Simon snorted. "Didn't the Barbies teach you that's _exactly _what a date is?"

He calls my "sisters" 'the Barbies', with a touch of contempt. However, the Barbies earned every last iota of it, especially Rosalie. While she is thrilled about my "blooming relationship" with Buzz, she _hates _Simon with a passion. She looks at him the same way he looks at bell-boys and waitresses – like their insects that saturate the air with bacteria just by breathing it. To add to that, she says she finds Simon a bad influence, even though she can't ignore that Buzz inhales more pot smoke than air. In fact, she _gushed _over how Joshua Lee Bloomberg had 'glanced at me' even though the boy – massive inheritance and movie-industry pedigree aside – is an alcoholic in the making.

Simon grimaces.

"It's not like that," I say. I've been saying that to everyone – myself, especially.

For most of the date, I felt like I was stuck in some re-enactment of the _Lady and the Tramp_. I dreaded the moment in which Buzz was going to use spaghetti as means to unite our lips into a sloppy, canine kiss. The more the evening progresses, the less disgusting the _idea _of kissing him seemed.

Away from the influx of emotions of the evening… that scares me.

The kiss itself, I think, would have been kind of unromantic. There's marinara sauce from the boneless chicken wings decorating his upper-lip like a Stalinesque mustache. He ordered garlic bread, and the scent of that clung to his mouth. Unfortunately for me, my breath smells delectably and has the same effect as general anesthesia even if I eat fried garlic.

Buzz didn't share my luck. Behind us, there's was lady in her 60s that brought clean-shaven, prehistoric Maltese. The pooch looked like a wet rat, and has the breath of one. I didn't want my first kiss to happen next to a prune-like old lady declaring her undying love to a flatulent dog. I dreaded the moment Buzz would try to break the distance, and kiss me like the stray mutt in said movie.

A weird expression crosses Simon's face. "What did you guys do? Watch the Super Bowl and eat BBQ ribs?" A cackle of contempt and glee follows his statement.

I scowl at him.

"The super-bowl happens on a Sunday, dumbass."

I don't know how I feel about the date.

If Buzz and I did end up talking about sports for most of the date, that was _my _fault. Buzz took bait. As for the menu and location, Simon wasn't far off the mark. Buzz took me to the _Applebee's _near the former bridge at Crown Point. The fact that we did eat boneless chicken wings and mozzarella sticks for my first date is stopped mattering. What ended up mattering is that Buzz picked the only restaurant next to a historical monument. We watched the sun set over the bridge at Crowne Point as the as the sun went down and he moon went up. Buzz reserved the booth nearest to the Crown Point bay. It matters that he thought this date thoroughly, to the point of asking the manager to put a wheelchair ramp over the five inch step between the entrance and our booth. It made me smile. To greet me, he gave me a goofy kind of kiss on the cheek, a sweet kind of kiss on the cheek, not the cocky kind he forces on me at school. It was more of a question than a statement, an offer more than an imposition.

"He took me to a restaurant," I say simply. Against my will, the sparkle in my eyes betrays me. A delicate blush graces the hollows under my cheeks, turning the pale pink underneath them a dark rose. I bite back a smile, embarrassed and giggly altogether.

Simon grunts. Rather forcefully, he stuffs a fistful of M&Ms into his mouth. For a couple of minutes, I tilt my head to the side, studying him. Simon's expression is stone as he picks out a song to play on the Wii. He picks out _Black Magic Woman. _I snort, but inside… I'm reeling.

"I'm not inspiring the song choice, am I?" I try to sound playful, but my expression is tentative and hurt.

Simon cracks a small smile. "Nah," he says, still focused on the screen and on hitting the notes. Once he's done, he turns his head towards me and gives me a gentler, playful smile. "Don't toot your own horn, Cullen."

He gets a fairly high score on the game, hitting nearly all the notes. "Aw," I mock. "Look at that score. It's incredibly low."

"Must be hard to hang out with such a loser, for you, huh?" he says this with such bite in his voice that it stings like a jab.

"You're still my best friend," I say, playful tone turning serious. It sounds like a plea.

Imperceptibly, his lips twitch upwards.

"I know, home-bitch," Simon teases, giving me a wink. It's a silly nickname he came up with when I said I was his home-girl. And then, he's had good reason to turn it to "home-bitch."

"Your turn," he says, handing me the guitar. It's a bit awkward to position myself; I'm propped up by a couple of pillows, to keep my back straight and my hips in place.

I still beat him with my score when I finish playing _La Grange by ZZ Top. _ "This is my favorite song, you know," I inform him.

"No, it's not," he says matter-of-factly, with a snort. "Your favorite song comes from the _Tangled _soundtrack." Simon's lips are bursting with laughter even as he tries to keep his face straight.

I wrinkle my nose.

Finally, he laughs at me. I blush because it's true. A laugh bursts out of my mouth.

"My favorite song to _play_," I correct him. "You know, for this game…" Playfully, I tap all of my dainty fingers on the guitar strings. I giggle again.

Taking off the plastic guitar, I pop another red M&M in my mouth.

"You're such a racist with your M&Ms," Simon comments.

I stick out the tip of my tongue at him. Behind that tip, the chocolate is melting. "And yet you stick pre-pick all of the red ones for me out of the packet."

For my birthday, Simon got me a bunny stuffed with Red M&Ms. He put a bracelet on her stuffed paw, one that I'm still wearing even though it gets caught on the wheels of my chair if I'm not careful. Once I finished the M&Ms, he took me to Build-a-Bear to fill it up with actual stuffing.

I've climbed out of my chair and am sitting near him in the couch. Freed from the constraints of arm-rests and wheels, I stretch out my neck to give him a peck on the cheek. Underneath my lips, his dimple sinks in as his face breaks into a smile. It isn't spontaneous, but I drag my body closer, arms moving useless hips, until I'm curled around him.

My head is on his chest. Simon's chest starts pounding, hard, presumably from having vampire off-spring approaching. My legs dangle from the couch.

With his heart drumming in his chest, he wraps an arm around me. As we breathe in sync, his heartbeat slows.

"When are you getting picked up?" he suddenly asks, in a contented, lazy tone.

"At my earliest convenience," I say with a wry smile. "Although for all we know Emmett is out there with night-visors and an Extendable Ear." Simon shudders imperceptibly, and I smile fondly, curling around this boy that went past three abusive vampires to hang out with me. My head is on his chest.

Underneath my head, his chest trembles. Simon laughs with more gusto than I find polite, but I'm glad he finds me funny.

"Speaking of which, how did your brothers do with this new _dating _habit of yours?" Simon bursts into taunting laughter. I hear the gentle rubbing of his hand on the fabric of my jacket. If he were pushing down harder, my body would mistake it for gentle pressure.

Mortified, I smack him lightly across the chest. "It wasn't a date!" I repeat vehemently. I try to sit up straight, but he tightens his grip.

That phrase is becoming to me what "That's all Folks," is to Bugs Bunny.

"Uh huh," Simon cackles, giving me a funny look. Then he lets out another robust laugh.

"We were _hanging out_," I repeat. "Like you and I hang out. Except, you know, with a lot more touchy-touchy gestures on his part," I add, with a sound between a fond giggle and a derisive snort.

Simon bristles.

"Nessie…he didn't…he didn't _force _anything on you?" Simon chokes out, tightening his arms around me. I find his hand on my arm, trembling with anger, but caressing my arm with the greatest gentleness. I give it a squeeze.

"Do you think he'd still be walking around if he had?" I say. "Actually, he was a complete gentleman."

So to speak.

* * *

><p>Dinner was lovely.<p>

The movie was, too.

It was the in-between that has me in doubt.

Outside the restaurant, all my blood went to my face like it had the hematological structure of a penis_. _If I had been one, I would've been suffering from one of those painfully, abnormally long erections.

Buzz ruined progress made at the dinner portion of the soiree so quickly it made my head spin. From the second I saw the monstrosity of his truck, I realized he'd have to help me into the car. The seat was raised too high. I spun out of his grasp, wheeling fast towards the vehicle in spite of the slush crusted underneath my chair wheels. I locked the brakes, waiting. With terminally-ill enthusiasm, Buzz opened the door to the car.

Once that was done, we lapsed into awkward silence.

Buzz broke it. "Can you… or do you…?"

"I can't," I said, looking down into my lap. Sardonically, I was praising his intelligence inside my head.

Another awkward, nine-months-pregnant, pause. "I mean, I usually can if the seat is level with this," I blubbered on, blushing, tapping the seat on my chair. I'm usually strapped to it by a lap belt, to keep my hips positioned all the way to the back. I had taken it off underneath the table, at the restaurant.

As I blubbered on, I watched in horrified slow motion.

"Right," Buzz said, nearly clapping like Mary Poppins about to clean the nursery. "Alright then, let's…"

"Uh…" I said stupidly, at a loss for words, elbows resting on the armrests. Buzz walked towards me, lodging his feet underneath my footrests.

He snuck his bulging biceps – four times the size of my own skinny arms – underneath my shoulders, hooking me to him. "Uh, eh, Buzz- …"

I squealed loudly as I was lifted into the air.

I found myself pressed hard against Buzz Hemlich's sculpted abs. Engulfed by the natural scent of them – not the bucket of cologne he dumped on his neck - I was pleasantly surprised. Unfortunately, I was also hanging like a pendulum from a clock, dead weight, underarms pressed to his biceps.

I squealed again as Buzz lifted me further up. My head was nestled in between Buzz's shoulder blades and his head. He smelled like an inch's worth of chocolate-scented Axe and cologne. Like a Wal-mart aisle. Engulfed by that scent, I started to cough. I could see the ground, and I was suddenly well-aware of my legs crumbling underneath me, caught on the raised footrests.

"Eh, uh…Sorry," Buzz says sheepishly.

I started to laugh. A ton of trilling giggles, like the sound of a bell, burst out of my mouth. Laughing. At how ridiculous I we must've looked. At how unromantically romantic the moment was.

Then he killed it.

"Could you, eh, move a little towards the car seat?" Buzz asked, mortified. I could feel his cheek pressed against my hair and earlobe, burning with his blush and rough with his stubble.

"Honey, if I could, we wouldn't be having this problem."

"Crap," he muttered. "Eh, I…Uh…"

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Buzz, you need to grab my ass."

_There's a sentence I thought I'd _never_ say. _

It's kind of an unimaginable scenario. My ass, by necessity, is married to a costumed-design cushion designed to distribute and reduce pressure on it. Emmett, Jasper and Daddy help me with this all the time, but they do it so often and so professionally that I hadn't thought about it until now.

"Really?!" Buzz asked excitedly, as though as if I was Ed fucking McMahon with a fucking check.

"Please don't wet yourself," I said dryly.

Buzz dropped my shoulders.

I squawked like an entire chicken coop but together.

I felt my body crumble backward and downwards without any support. If I plopped down on the chair like that, I'd tip it over, anti-tippers aside. Claws out, like a cat, I latched onto his shoulders, probably digging into the hardened, sculpted flesh.

Buzz didn't seem to mind. When his hands presumably found my butt-cheeks – it's not like I could tell -, he _moaned _like I was a freaking pint of Ben & Jerry's.

I was being _groped_, and by the look on his face, Buzz Hemlich was enjoying it.

_God, if you're up there, you have an interesting sense of humor. _

As my body was shifted to the side of the car, guided to it by Buzz's hands on my ass, I started laughing.

As if dancing with a log of wood, Buzz spun me around.

Then I banged my head on the SUV of his car-seat. My laughter died. _Lord almighty. Without support, my legs dangled and my torso crumbled like an accordion. I was being held up like dirty underwear – I hung on by a thread._

"Oh, god, Nessie, can't you….squat down?" Buzz whispered in mortified horror, the smirk wiped off his face.

"Again," I said through clenched teeth. "If I could, we wouldn't be having this problem."

I can duck my head and shoulders, not squat down and in. That involves a movement of the torso, and the capacity to stand on two feet.

"Oh, yeah, right," Buzz mumbled dumbly. His cheeks flamed pink. Buzz dropped one of my butt-cheeks to grab on to my shoulders. Squawking as I felt the fall, I threw my arms around him like a vice around his neck.

"Buzz, put me down," I choked. Engulfed by his scent, I started to feel dizzy.

"I'm trying," Buzz pleaded, whimpering. Like a dumb baby playing with blocks and square pegs, he persisted. Hands hooked around my hips, he swung me around the same way.

"Ouch!" I yelped, more for the sake of appearances than pain as my head hit the doorjamb. At this point, a normal human would have been developing a little purple Mount Everest on their forehead.

"In my chair!"

As if working with a human-sized pendulum, Buzz swung my body to the side. Once I was positioned above the chair – as per his estimation – he dropped my rock-hard ass.

_Oh, lord. _For a second, I clung to him for dear life, arms wrapped around his neck.

Slowly, my hands found my armrests, and I lowered myself into the chair. It wasn't the best position; half of my ass was floating in the air, knees bent forward and twisted awkwardly. I scooted my hands backwards and pushed upwards, dragging myself backwards into the chair. Positioning myself was easier – incredibly so – with Rose to help me do it. Buzz stared at me curiously.

"So, eh…" Oh, god. I took a deep breath. "First, we do this – " I swung the footrests and armrests quickly out of the way,

"- and then you place your hands under my…eh, _ass_ –"

I turned the red color of the flag.

- and then I'll wrap my arms around you…" _There's another phrase I thought I'd never say. _

Buzz's face was overcome with misplaced tenderness.

I'm mortified. It's like all of it – grabbing my ass and the bodily contact - is a bad rehearsal of a crappy romantic comedy.

Or soft-core porn.

* * *

><p>Simon and I decide to go watch a movie, a romantic comedy we'll end up making fun of. I chose not to watch the same movie with Buzz, lest he get any bright ideas. Instead, Buzz and I watched a movie about a pandemic. Somehow, he still found the ambiance romantic, and my hand found itself occupied with slapping his advances away. This'll be fun.<p>

Because my chair doesn't fit on Simon's Mini-Cooper, we ride a pick-up truck his grandfather used to own, for driving him and his mother to their ranch in New York. They own a business down there. I find it a bit strange, the idea of Eastern Europeans owning an Old-West style establishment. It's like Dr. Shah, a colleague of Carlisle's, owning a Taco Bell franchise. From what I've heard, the tacos taste like curry.I don't judge any of them because my family owns stock in food companies and in Yum!, the mother-ship for Pizza Hut.

Miss Enescu, the former Mrs. Lowell, drives an SUV that would fit my chair better. However, she is always out of the house – she's a teacher of European Studies, specializing in the Soviet Union and former satellite states at a local college. I've never met her, or Simon's grandfather. From what I've heard (and glimpsed) of him, Mr. Enescu – Simon's grandfather – is not the most welcoming of men.

I haven't met him. Even after all these years, he has to speak in his village dialect to Simon.

After parking the chair next to the pick-up truck, I swing the footrest away. Rather expertly, my best friend squats down and sticks his hands under my butt. I push down on the armrests to lift myself up into the air. Simon, unlike my family or even Buzz, needs that extra help. This time, it takes us only two tries to manage enough leverage to get me up into the seat.

"Wow," I beam. Legs still dangling down, I squeeze one of his biceps. It's harder under my grip. "Somebody's been working out," I say, with a wink.

"Shut up, Ness," Simon mumbles, the entirety of his face turning red. I laugh as I grab my legs by the Velcro strap and fling them into the car. Expertly, he breaks down the chair and stows it away in the trunk. The truck is old – Simon's money comes from the Mr. Lowell side of things. The truck was also adapted with hand-controls, since Mr. Enescu had been suffering the effects of a busted hip up until last September. Hungrily, almost licking my lips, I stare at the hand-controls.

A curtain is flung open. Mr. Enescu peers down from what I presume is the kitchen window. He is man with deep-set wrinkles, thick, bushy eyebrows and a tuft of white hair. His dark eyes turn beady when he spots me in the passenger seat of his former truck. With one hand, he raps roughly on the window pane. He waves us. Nervous, I wave back at him.

Simon groans in irritation, glowering in the old man's direction before driving away. I waited to get onto the highway, turning on the radio.

"My brothers were _so bad._"

Now _I _turn red with anger, burying my face in my hand at the sheer force of the memory. I start telling him the story, suddenly struck by laughter. My belly shakes, and I have a hard time breathing through the laughter at certain bits of the story. He laughs, too, smirking the entire way to the movie theater. Immediately, he drives to the handicapped parking spots.

"Did you bring the Hangman dangly thingy?"

I'm sure the dangly-thingy has a name. I've always called it that, especially when I was little. The handicapped sign looks like a hangman drawing. That's how I drew my stick figure when I was little, with a big ribbon on top of the head to indicate I was a girl.

"I did," I say, sticking my hand in the front pocket of my jean. I hang it from his rearview mirror.

We both quickly realize that the dangly thingy is not going to do us any good – which happens very often. All of the handicapped parking spaces, all _seven _of them, are taken.

"Goddammit," Simon spits under his breath.

"Shh," I soothe, rubbing his arm.

He takes a calming breath. Breathy, Simon grabs two fistfuls of his hair and pulls them up. He looks like a baby girl with two pigtails. I laugh.

He turns to look at me like I've gone crazy, too. "I'm sorry," I say, fighting to control my laughter. "I'm laughing because of how your hair is sticking up – "

Simon tilts his head towards the rearview mirror; his tufts of honey-colored hair look like horns. "Oh," he says, blushing. He pats them down.

I laugh again "People are such _idiots,_" he spits, driving away from the taken spots.

"Nah," I say breezily. "Inconsiderate is more like it."

Very gently, I rub his bicep, starting to bulge under my touch. He relaxes a little. Tone lightening, I add, "I bet you six out of those seven cars don't have a hangman thingy."

Simon snorts derisively. "You have a very misguided opinion of people," he says.

"What if a couple of them are elderly?" I suggest.

"You don't have the hangman dangly thingy, you don't get to park on the spot where he's painted."

"In your opinion," I say. I point to a spot a hundred feet away. "Park back there. There isn't that much distance between that spot and the wheelchair ramp, and there's space for us to unload."

Simon grunts but does as I say. Muttering curses and utterances about the dipshits in this town, he puts my chair back together and holds it out. Quickly, he helps me out of the chair – with the help of his tantrum, he seems stronger. Rougher in his movements, he levers me into my chair. Together, we make our way, parallel to the cars. He stands behind me, like a protective sentinel, to shield me from the careless traffic.

Up the wheelchair ramp, I spin in the direction of the illegally parked cars. I fish out my iPhone from the pack hanging from the back of my chair. "Look at this," I say with glee, grinning slyly. I approach the first car, and manage to angle my phone to take a picture of its front. There is no sticker to be found in the monster-like truck. I take a picture of its plates.

"Look at what, Ness?" he asks of me grumpily.

"It's an app," I say cheerfully. "You send pictures of cars that are parked illegally in handicapped spots, and from there it goes to the police. They send out tickets at their discretion."

I have a lingering suspicion someone in my family invested on the app, to keep the rest of them from doing vigilante justice. I wouldn't put it past Rose, Emmett and Jazz to key the cars of people they find parked illegally. Emmett and Jasper have been nearly arrested for _assault _because they get so aggressive about my rights. As much as being crippled and stuck in the damn chair mortifies me, I don't subscribe to their methods.

Simon brightens up. "That's actually kind of cool."

He walks around me, hand casually brushing the back of my neck. Simon's become so much taller over the past couple of weeks that his fingertips barely brush the nape of my neck if he doesn't squat down. "That's five out of seven parked illegally," Simon calls out. "You wanna take pictures of all of them?"

Smiling cockily, I fold my hands across my lap. "You should take them. You owe me from losing that bet."

* * *

><p>The most awkward stretch of my first date with Buzz hadn't yet ended. We found ourselves staring at each other, as if engaged in a blushing contest, a long <em>minute <em>after he managed to get me into the seat. It was the first time he saw my legs just _dangling _so, useless and crippled. It suddenly felt very intimate to lift them up by the Velcro strap and into the car seat. Another beat of awkward silence followed. Buzz stared at my wheelchair, atop the pavement, like a 3rd grader reading Shakespeare.

Shame suddenly flared up me like a firecracker bursting, my face heating up an iota or too. "Er…does that thing…er…?"

Irritated – he sounded like Ron fucking Weasley talking about He Who Must Not Be Named - , I stretched out one long arm. With it, I spun the wheelchair around, gripping one of the handles. Almost effortlessly, I lifted it up into the air. I grasped a grab bar at the bottom of the backrest, and popped off the wheels with the other hand.

"Put this in the trunk," I grumbled at my aspiring lover, holding out the tire to him. Slack-jawed, he bridged the distance between us, as if approaching a dangerous animal. He took the wheels. Roughly, I folded the back down, so that it pressed against to the chair seat. At that point, Buzz seemed to have forgotten the "chair" portion of "wheelchair." With my folded chair still in midair, Buzz opened the driver seat's door and nearly started driving.

"Eh…uh…Buzz?"

Awkwardness permeated the air for multiple long minutes. Silence stretched madly. Buzz was sweating bullets, his blue eyes spinning back and forth, mouth curled into an apologetic grimace.

"Oh, god, Ness," he apologized, agonized profusely. "Oh, my god, I'm sorry. Oh, god…"

Out of politeness, I didn't roll my eyes. There are two types of people in the world: the people that don't notice the wheelchair-bound to the point of being _rude_, and the people that apologize for brushing the chair with a finger, as though as the contraption was a terminally-ill, four-foot old lady.

To encourage that he become neither, I muster all the patience in my handicapped little body.

"Don't worry about it." I give him my sweetest, friendliest, most _chill_ smile.

Annoyed, I lifted the chair across my lap like the invincible Hulk. A couple of minutes pass as I try to squeeze the thing through the gap between our two large seats.

It wasn't working.

When I finally chanced a peek at Buzz, my cheeks blazing, I found him gazing at me with pure, undiluted pity. My own cheeks burned with rage and shame. I stuck the chair outside again and unfold it. Ever creatively persistent and persistently creative, I squeezed the back portion through the slit in between us. Then I squeezed in the seat portion, making a zig-zag with my chair.

"You can take it out from the backseat when we get there," I said, my tone lightened by my beam of satisfaction. Buzz nodded at me like I was barking orders in Mandarin Chinese.

It irritated me.

"Drive!" I said, biting back the urge to snap my fingers at him.

The first five minutes of the drive stretched on in a horrible awkwardness, my stomach sinking. This was the first time he's been confronted with the reality of a girlfriend in a wheelchair, and he's not doing well. His face is contorted in a mixture of mortification and pity.

I kept praying that the earth would swallow me whole. _Hi, God. Ah… You and I don't, eh, talk to each other. I don't know if this is how, this is eh, supposed to go…_What if God was more like Brahman? Or Zeus, or something? What if I was offending whatever the hell is up there, by referring to it as the God of the Bible?

_I don't actually… _I don't actually believe in God, either – not in a meddlesome, bearded man up in the air with a bunch of winged babies. _Well, anyway, my father, Edward…and his father, Carlisle especially, say you're kind of cool and that I should, eh, talk to you. Ah, well… Regardless…Whoever you are…Could you eh, make this be less awkward? If you really can do all things? _

For a split-second, I embraced the Lord Jesus Christ as my savior. God had answered my prayers, because Buzz opened his mouth. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

Or not.

_Oh, shit_, I thought, stomach sinking. Slowly, he put one hand on my thigh, and began rubbing gently. Dread boiled up my blood. He was going to ask how my 'chair and I ended up shaking together, in a bond more permanent than marriage. I was sure of it. However, I couldn't exactly ruin his content existence by telling him I was mauled by a brutal monster.

When we first moved here, I thought it would be funny to tell people I was mauled by pit-bull. Nobody – not even Emmett – saw the fun in that. Personally, I thought a sick, warped man like Jacob Black would be horrified at the thought of being compared to an animal that relatively small. I'm convinced he's one of those psychos with issues with their strength and masculinity. For somebody to maul a newborn baby, he'd have to have serious issues with size, strength and self-confidence. In my head, all of those things add up to a small wiener. _Big gun, small wiener_, I think.

"Car accident," I said flatly, with the tone I use to give him the answers for Math homework.

Buzz blushed. I found it a strange reaction to an admission of a crippling accident, as carelessly as it was delivered. "I'm sorry," he said sweetly, squeezing my hand. The pity was gone, replaced by genuine empathy. "Drunk drivers really are idiots."

I shrugged facetiously. My kind of idiot wasn't _drunk_, which in retrospect made it worse. "At least it wasn't deliberate," I said matter-of-factly. "It was an accident."

If only Buzz knew how _un-accidental _it was, how deliberately Black mauled me.

Buzz whistled. "That's very…_gracious _of you," he finally said, blue eyes wide with amazement. I shrugged again. Where Jacob Black was concerned, even the mild attitude of contempt I sometimes managed, in the stead of blinding hatred and paralyzing fear, was _beyond_ gracious.

"I mean, what's done is done," I said, my voice roughening with real, legitimate bitterness, "it's not like hating the person in question is going to make any of it go away."

I paused, struck by the recognition of logical wisdom in a truth formulated but not accepted.

"Right," he said quietly. "He did take a lot away from you, though."

With the sad part being, I don't _miss_ it because I never had it. I yearn for it like a bittersweet longing. Rather, I _yearn _for treatment of some sort. If I had _any _other condition, my chances of getting out of the wheelchair would be higher. "I mean, it happened when I was very young," I say breezily, my voice more contemplative than bitter. "I was a baby – practically happened right as I was leaving the hospital."

Buzz flinched. I continued on. I shrugged my shoulders. "I mean, it sucks. Sucks balls. Biggest pain in my ass, don't get me wrong. But it's not like my life is any less fulfilling because of it, you know?"

Looking unconvinced, appeasing above all else, Buzz nodded. From the corner of his eye, he started to look at me with a sweet sort of pity, a tender kind of pity.

It makes my cheeks flame because it's so _sweet _even as it is more irritating than a horny, bored Emmett.

I don't like explaining the _damn chair I'm confined to_. It's demeaning the chair's significance to call it just a "pain in the ass." It's a more much nuanced conversation than that. It's not the type of conversation I'm not going to have with Buzz Hemlich because he bought me mozzarella sticks while looking at a pretty bridge.

"Sure," Buzz says carefully, with a voice like he's treading on eggshells. I tense immediately. "I guess you can do everything."

His tone sounds strange _sheepish. _I bristle immediately, narrowing my eyes.

I don't feel like elaborating on the nuances to that question, especially because the past 15 minutes have re-defined awkwardness on fifty different levels.

Again, Buzz took the awkwardness up a notch.

"Can you…can you have…can you have sex?"

I made a "_Huh_," noise like he just punched me in the stomach with his big, beefy hand. That was the 'personal question' he wanted to ask – I'm so _dumb. _I've been asked that "personal question" since my tits grew in, by a wide assortment of perverts at public spaces. Even Granddaddy, famous for legendary control, _flipped _out so much when he heard that once that he slammed the man in question against a wall.

"You're going to do more than buy me a couple of appetizers at Applebee's before you get the answer to that question," I snapped slyly.

"Ness, baby, don't get mad," Buzz pleaded desperately, his voice sheepish. "I was just curious."

At that point, jumping out of the car seemed like a very desirable option. "Do I ask you how often you wank?" I snap crudely, the perpetual blush coloring my cheeks turning into the red of rage.

I wish it was only out of lady-like prudery prompting me to say that. It wasn't. My answer – or lack thereof – stemmed from a lack of knowledge. I have _no idea. _There aren't many resources out there on sexuality for women with paralysis, and I dread the idea of asking my personal physician.

"Hey, grandpa, I know the pussy's intact, but would the roll in the hay be the same?" If the dreaded answer is a flat "No," I don't want to talk to him about re-defining my sexuality as a wheelchair-bound woman. "Well, my darling, you can…_engage your partner's phallic region without penetrative coitus_." I can just picture him choking on those words.

Even as I blushed, a _chortle _flew out of my mouth.

"What's so funny?" Buzz asked, a curious smile on his lips.

"Just thinking about…" I smile, wryly, blushing just at the thought of _asking, _and at the thought of my grandfather's prudery.

"Nothing," I finally said, with one final burst of laughter.

Buzz smiled. The gesture touched my grizzly-irritable heart. "You have a nice laugh."

A beat passed as my stomach leaped into my chest.

"Really?" I asked, excited, face lighting up in every corner.

"No, I mean, I was genuinely curious, honey," he said softly. "About what it's like to live in the…you know, in the…"

"Wheelchair," I offered.

In a loud, sweeter voice, I quoted Hermione Granger. "Fear of the name is only going to increase fear of the thing itself." It's not like Voldemort is going to pop out of thin air, conjured by the mention of my hermit crab-slash-chair.

Silence stretched on, taut and uncomfortable, until I broke it.

"What do you want to know?" I sound different, like a sweeter version of the bitter old harpy I've been regaling him with.

"What it's like," Buzz explained, sweetly and sheepishly, with a shrug. Underneath his stubble-covered cheeks, there's a pool of blood, much like mine.

"Well," I say contemplatively, my tone light. "Some things are harder than they would be if I could just get up and do it – like, getting up from the couch to get popcorn. But where it gets really hard and frustrating is when I can't use my chair to do things."

So I told Buzz about everything – about things to low too reach, like toilet paper rolls in handicapped-accessible bathrooms. I told him about narrow doorjambs and high doorknobs, about raised counters, and the lesser of two evils - lowered counters without space for the chair. I told him about stairs without accompanying ramps, which regardless of their height and number, were still stairs. I told him of unfortunately placed grab bars. I told him about blocked entryways, streets without ramps, and holes in the pavement. I told him about cramped furniture, shops and restaurants. I told him about "handicapped-accessible bathrooms right up the stairs." I told him about revolving doors. I told him about the time I tried to lift myself up into a raised stool and ended up lodged on a countertop. I told Buzz about people parking in handicapped parking spaces. By the end of it, I was laughing. Tentatively, he was laughing, too.

In spite of my lecture, our arrival to the mall wasn't free of awkwardness. Alice, god bless her heart, had stuffed a handicapped hangy thingy in the pocket of my pea coat. Wordlessly, I stuck it underneath Buzz's rearview mirror. Buzz pleasantly surprised me.

"I guess this wheelchair thing does have its peaks," he said, with apprehensive playfulness. I was so touched by his openness.

I response, I gave him a smile that extends from dimple to dimple, eyes sparkling.

When he lifted me back into my chair, my guard crumbled. I let him bridge the distance between us to gently kiss the tip of my nose, and brush his lips on that dangerous line between it and my lips.


	8. Inexplicable Actions of a Boy In Love

For those of you still tuned in, thank you! School was crazy, and I couldn't sneak enough time in for a full chapter. I'll try to finish this before school starts again, but until then, thanking you for following this!

**Edited after publishing. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8: The Inexplicable Actions of an a Boy in Love<strong>

"Hello?"

"Oh, hello, Nessie, darling!"

Just like that, my Sunday night goes to hell. The voice is sweet, sickeningly so, like a fountain of molten chocolate. With it, my mood sours. Even when I was little, her presence rubbed me all wrong. She talks to me like that because she thinks I'm mentally disabled, not just physically. Or maybe she humors Daddy by pretending I'm still five years old. God knows I've hated her from the moment I know she was lusting after my father. What the fuck ever.

"It's your _Aunt _Tanya," she announces. _Stepmother _is what she wants to be, I happen to know a little too well. I fight to stifle a huff.

"Yes, I realized," I say, in a tone so dry it tethers on rude. "Hello, _Tanya._"

I emphasize her name strongly. The woman and I have no familial relation, and the fact that she wants to emphasize it is disgusting. By her own logic, she wants to…_do something _with her cousin. Like a cougar, or a dog in heat.

Tanya lets out the fakest giggle I've ever heard. If we were talking in person, her eyes would narrow ever-so-imperceptibly, but her voice would remain sweet. I know she hates me, but pretends otherwise in her quest to sleep with my _father. _I suspect they do sleep around, but just thinking about it makes my skin curl.

"I was calling to ask if your grandmother had received our wedding invitations."

My heart starts beating so hard I can feel it pulsating against my chest. My palms are so sweaty I fear the phone will slip from my hands. I press it against my shoulder, trapping it there with my cheek.

"Your _wedding invitations_?" I half-yell, alarmed.

Tanya lets out a trill of chuckles. I don't find her fucking funny and I let out a grumble. "For Gareth and Katerina's wedding, that is," she explains. "I sent it on behalf of the clan."

"Isn't that a waste of paper?" I grumble just for the sake of annoying her, relaxing, back crumbling against the back of my chair. I want to end this conversation shortly. I press on the speaker phone and put the thing on my lap, rolling away from the base of the cordless. "Couldn't you just call, like you're calling now?"

I enjoy putting the woman on the spot like this. She could hate me to her heart's content but would never dare act on it. The day she finally does, her relationship with Daddy will go up in smoke. Tanya forces another chuckle, but I can literally hear her teeth grind.

"It's more formal like this, precious," Tanya trills in a saccharine voice. I can just imagine her thinking "_you little bitch_" but replacing the term with "_precious._"

"Alice has mentioned that, yes," I titter back, "But isn't all that formality unnecessary with your dear _cousins_?" I emphasize the word again, and then let out a giggle as fake as Taco Bell cheese toppings.

Before she can snipe something back, I yell: "GRANDMA!" in the direction of my lap. Tanya lets out an agitated growl. Nana would've heard anyway, but it's always fun to get on Tanya's nerves. "They want the RSVP for Garret and Kate's wedding!"

Immediately, my grandmother emerges from her bedroom and holds out her hand.

"Isn't it a tad tacky to pressure guests into RSVP-ing?" I ask as though I'm genuinely curious in my sweetest voice, batting my big, doe-like eyes innocently. I hold the phone away but speak so loudly the vulture on the other end will hear.

Nana looks at me, absolutely appalled. Puckering my lips and batting my lips, I widen my eyes. Nana isn't fooled, though. In spite of her narrowed-eye glare, though, the corner of one of her lips turns up.

* * *

><p>Strong sunlight pores brightly into my bedroom the following Monday morning, even though it's mid-February. I feel so relieved you'd think I was Atlas being freed of the weight of the world. Suddenly, most of the tension I didn't know I'd been holding is released. Daddy and his cohorts can't go to school today, and a show-down was one of the many worries plaguing me the night before. The sunlight means John James "Buzz" Hemlich has escaped the eminent risk of castration - within the school premises, anyway.<p>

I put cover-up underneath the big, purple blotches around my eyes. _Les Vamps _are able to see past the layer of white paste, but I'm not looking to hide the circles and swells from them. I care more about the horny, teenaged vultures I call classmates realizing I was too nervous to fall asleep.

"That's a good call," Rose says sagely, like we're besties at a slumber party, as she finishes my hair. "You don't want him to know you were nervous."

I choke on my own saliva. Underneath the frothy paste of makeup, my skin turns scarlet. "_I'm not nervous!_" I hiss through gritted teeth.

Rose smiles all-knowingly. "Oh, darling, there's nothing wrong with being nervous about seeing your sweetheart after –"

My eyes bulge inside their sockets. I'm ashen-faced with horror. " .just _drop the subject_?"

Rose smiles with amused satisfaction, saying nothing as she places an eyelet-covered diadem on my hair. She hangs my book-bag from the back of my chair and heads downstairs to make me breakfast.

Luckily, she can't say anything else during breakfast. The subject _was_ dropped, because Daddy and Emmett were unsurprisingly _anal _about the whole thing. Emmett kept on glaring at me as though personally offended, and Daddy was stone-walling me. I pay it no mind.

Because of the sunlight, Nana drops me off at school – the rest of them are pretending to go camping. Nana parks under a wide car-pot near the entrance, unfolding my chair and lifting me off the vehicle.

I kiss her goodbye, smiling brightly to hide the fact that I feel like puking.

* * *

><p>A wide berth is made for my chair as I make way to my locker. Students move out of my way like repelled magnets. It makes me nervous. Usually, I'm either stared at or invisible. At 8:32 in the morning, I tend to be the latter. Since I'm already jittery and emotional, it makes me want to cry. Barely a couple of yards into the school hallway, I'm already sniffling, feeling sick to the stomach because they won't stop <em>staring<em>.

People tilt down their heads to stare, and whisper. Hearing their louder-than-average whispers makes a couple of tears slip. I'm "dating/fucking" the Quarterback that is going to take St. Marge's to glory. A yard into the main hallway from the entrance, I've heard least 12 different rumors about my blossoming relationship with Buzz Hemlich. Most of them involve my mouth, his penis, and how I wouldn't have to bend down to access it. Tears brim on the corner of my eyes, thankfully cushioned by my unnaturally large eyelashes.

I reach my locker. In spite of the fact that I didn't _need _to wage battle against wayward backpacks and moody teenagers, I'm red-faced. The effort of reigning sobs back in is exhausting.

I wheel down the corridors, trying my best to keep the expression off my face. It's Murphy's law – the day I want to be invisible is the only day I'm not. I'm slumped over, pushing my chair through as fast as I can without drawing too much attention. The pace still feels glacial. I reach the History classroom – luckily open, but empty.

I wrestle with the classroom door to open it, until finally, I crank my chair through. It's unbelievably heavy. Finally in, I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm ready to wheel into my spot and sleep on the old wooden desk, ignoring the filthy carvings on it and the gum stuck underneath.

My buzz is killed like a cockroach with Raid, as I realize the spot at the front of the classroom, left open for my chair, has been filled by a wood one. I stare at the offensive furniture as if staring down the Anti-Christ.

I bury my face in my hands, rubbing my temples with my fingertips. Tears spring free…three, five, ten…rushing down my cheekbones and into the crook of my neck. Still crying, I decide I can try to move it out of the way.

"Pull it together," I spit through my chapped lips. Shit like this happens all the time. I shouldn't let a couple of crude whisperings make me more vulnerable to it. My silver Rollex says I have 20 minutes until class starts – giving me ample time to move the offending piece of furniture.

Quickly, I perform a three-point turn so that my back is facing the desks. Rolling backwards, I wait until I'm exactly behind the wooden chair. Then I angle my chair diagonally, and lean forward very carefully. I'm aware that the second I tumble out of my sitting position, I'm screwed. I stretch out one arm, and grab the backrest. Pleased, I drag it backwards with one hand. When I roll forward again, I intend to nudge the chair forward with my wheelchair's footrests.

It doesn't go as planned.

The wooden chair falls, first banging against my knee before finding its way to the ground. One of its metal legs ends up trapped in between the wheels of my chair and the footrests. The other has dislodged one of my feet, and is pressing down on it. I can't _feel _it, but the angle of the twist looks a little alarming.

I debate dislodging my foot, but decide against it – I don't want to lose my precarious balance the moment I lean over.

I'm effectively stuck until someone comes in.

I let out a long, shaky breath, trembling. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes and finally spring free. Hands fisted, I stick my hand in my mouth to give it a long, hard bite.

The door opens.

Quickly, I wipe off my tears with my sleeve. It ends up stained with salty tears and ivory-colored mush. Sniffling, I rub my eyes aggressively, composing my face.

When I turn, I meet a familiar pair of honey-colored eyes and dark hair.

I'm so weak with relief I could bawl.

"Ness, lov—? What are you doing?"

Simon looks so cutely confused it breaks my heart, and I resume my hopeless bawling.

Either used to my mood-swings or unfazed by them, Simon hurriedly disentangles the furniture from my wheelchair and sets it to the side. He then kneels in front of my chair, gently re-arranging my lopsided foot, and finally takes my hands in his.

"Nessie,what's wrong?" Simon asks gently. Gingerly, as if afraid my skin will burn, he rubs his thumb against my knuckles. He pushes a strand of hair and tucks it in behind my ear. Almost imperceptibly, his fingers brush over my jaw as he does it. For all I know, it was just a random motion.

Again, I sniffle. "There's nothing wrong," I assure him in a tinny voice.

He rubs over my knuckles very gently, but his voice is pulsating with anger. He's very defensive about these kinds of things. "Ness, there's no reason to get upset about knocking over a chair. If anything, it's the _fucker _that put it in there that should be upset."

I let out another sob, which wrecks my entire skinny torso.

"S'no sass," I mumble incoherently. Simon bites back a smile at my garbled mumbling. Somehow, he seems to understand.

"Then what is it, baby?" he nearly coos, like a mom communicating with her toddler.

I hesitate, sighing.

"A lot of stuff," I sniffle, wiping off my tears with my sleeve. Gently, with the back of his hand, he wipes away some of my tears.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Simon offers sweetly.

The floodgates open very quickly. Within a minute, I let out an incoherent stream of babbles, most about how Buzz Hemlich took me on a date to feel me up and hasn't contacted me since.

Simon mulls over my words, tilting his head as if to examine me more closely. I don't know if he understood any of my ramblings. After a minute, he grimaces, forcing the words out as if he were eating Brussel sprouts. He looks pensive, brow furrowed.

"I mean, He'd…He'd be an _idiot _if he were anything other than completely insane about you after that date."

Simon manages to earn the first genuine smile of the day. It's so tinny it's nearly imperceptible but he echoes it in his own face, even if it doesn't reach his eyes.

"You really think so?" I sniffle again. The corner of my lips turn upwards.

"Yes, well," Simon shrugs one shoulder. "You aren't _all bad_, you know."

I smack him across the shoulder, smile turning wry. My laugh bubbles out of me, and suddenly, I want to squeeze him in a big hug. He's so _cute_. The end of his lips curls up, even as he turns a dark shade of pink. "That's so sweet of you, Lowell," I say sardonically.

"Any time, Cullen," he says, relaxing. Simon rises, and pulls a box of Tick Tacks out of his pocket. He sticks one in his mouth but hands me a bunch of others.

Noticing my shoulders are still slumped, he says, "You're not really up for class, are you?"

* * *

><p>"If we're going to get detention or something to that effect for skipping, I'd rather do something fun," Simon declares.<p>

We're on the south entrance, the one people rarely use. Outside, the sky is cloudless but the wind bites. Unthinkingly, I wrap my arms around my shoulders, protected only by the flimsy nightshirt fabric. Still red-faced, I let out a giggle for no apparent reason.

He cracks a smile almost as if in response, eyes brightening. I rub my arms with my hands.

"You're cold," he notes. Immediately, he takes off his wool cardigan and throws it around my shoulders. Somehow, he always smells good – like lemon. The scent of it engulfs me.

"Shit," he says. "We could go back in – hide out in the library?"

I laugh really hard at that. "You just said we should do something fun."

A couple of beats pass as he thinks. The obvious impediment to it – my damn wheelchair – hangs unsaid in the air. It just doesn't fit in his Roadster Mini. He starts to look a little uncomfortable, eyes clouding over with something I recognize as _sadness_. For some reason, it makes me want to squeeze him silly – because not once has he looked at me with pity.

"Eh…We could try Knowles' Park? It's only a couple of blocks down, and there's a bus line that runs there," he suggests it very sweetly, almost awkwardly. He shoves his hands in his pockets, peeking at me from underneath dark eyelashes.

The idea hits very quickly. Slowly, my lips curl into a smile of their own accord. I fear looking a little like the Cheshire cat. I wipe the look off my face quickly. "Sure, that sounds OK."

I'm rubbing my fingers together, breathing on them to keep them warm. Sympathetically, he smiles. I begin to unbutton his gray woolen sweater, ready to hand it over.

"No, honestly, keep it," Simon says quickly, throwing his black jacket over himself.

"But you have goosebumps!" I protest, still unbuttoning. Simon shakes his head again, sheepish. One of his long arms stretches out to me; he stills my hands where they're making quick work of the buttons. Wide of palm, he completely engulfs me.

"It's fine," Simon repeats, firm. He gives me a reassuring little smile, touching one of his fingers to the tip of my dainty little nose. "See? If I flick your nose, it'll detach."

"Har har har," I say sardonically.

He snorts. "Anyhoo. Shall we?"

Without further ado, I spin my chair towards the parking lot exit. Simon walks at a leisurely pace besides me, one hand cupped around my shoulder, the other shoved in his chinos. Midway down the long asphalt road, I stop the spinning. I stop two rows in front of Simon's red Roadster mini, a gift from his father, who is as rich as his mother is poor.

"Why don't we try to fit my chair in again?" I suggest, face brightening.

Simon stares at me apprehensively, mouth agape. "Ness, I really don't think it'd work. We tried _everything._"

"If we'd tried _everything_, then it would've fit at some point," I point out. I spin my chair, zesty, and then tug on his sleeve. I don't wait for him to follow, but hear his heavy, defeated footsteps behind me.

As I stare at the little vehicle, I bite my lips. I'm bubbling at the seams. "It's just…I was thinking…You know that little café near Apple Orchard and Plumsfield?"

Simon nods slowly, face stiff with apprehension. "It's a little far, but I'm sure we could –"

"It's like a ten minute drive away, isn't it?"

He eyes me suspiciously, lips pursed. "I'm not sure how this relates to fitting your chair into the Roadster."

"Well, I was thinking…_I _could go on your lap," I offer peevishly, turning a little pink but giddy with the sheer brilliance of it. "And the chair could go in the passenger seat."

Simon blanches into the color of a sheet. "That's illegal. Not to mention insane! Besides, how _in the hell _could I get you into the Audi?"

"It's a 10 minute drive!" I retort back, still beaming. I know this'll work. I can goad him into it. Much like Daddy, when push comes to shove, there is very little Simon won't do for me. "And I was thinking I could just sit on your lap, we de-assemble the chair while I'm sitting on you and then we stick it in the passenger seat."

"No." Simon's tone is flat. Defensively, he folds his arms across his chest. "That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard."

My face falls of its own accord, lips crumbling into a pout, eyes falling, and shoulders slumping. Crestfallen, I sigh. A strand of dark, mahogany hair flies along with the exhalation. It's entirely unintentional, but Simon appears mollified. His eyes fill with regret.

"Button, I really don't mean to criticize your idea, lo—" He stops, an odd expression on his face. Sometimes, he'll call me Button, because I'm as cute as one.

"Then why won't you try it?" I ask softly, dejected. I peek up at him from dark, butterfly eyelashes. I can see in his face; he'll start relenting soon.

I keep the satisfaction off my face. He sighs, rubbing his hand against his face. "The things I do for you," he mumbles. Almost angry, he begins pacing around the Roadster, face clenching. Finally, he stops in front of me. "Alright," he huffs. "But if we get arrested…"

"We won't," I say smugly. "Alright, go sit…"

Arranging ourselves ends up taking up longer than walking there would have. Moving the broken down wheelchair into the passenger seat takes nearly 20 minutes; the foldable body of the chair ends up being the hardest. I end up sandwiched between his legs, spread open to accommodate my dead ones. Somehow, he still manages to put his feet on the pedals. This sounds fun; I've been giggling uncontrollably the entire time.

Finally, he shuts the door.

We're pressed up together as if spooning. Simon has to rest his chin on my shoulder. Back to back, we stay like that for a couple of minutes. With anyone else, it would be a stiflingly intimate position. I'm completely engulfed by him, by his warmth, his scent. The stretches of skin sensitive to touch on my back feel his ribcage under his woolen sweater.

For a minute, we just _are_.

Simon's breathing mellows out, and he starts to inhale, warm breath tickling my shoulder. He gulps in air, as if sniffing flowers.

With that, the moment turns awkward. My cheeks flame.

"You done?" I demand, breaking the silence.

Besides mine, his stubbled cheek heats up. He removes one hand from where – unbeknownst to me – it had been resting on my hip.

"Here goes nothing," Simon mumbles, pulling the gearshift into reverse. It's slow, and awkward, and I end up cackling manically in the middle because he narrowly misses hitting the opposite car several times, but Simon successfully does maneuver the car out of the parking lot.

By the time we're on the road, I'm laughing so hard my belly would hurt if I could feel it. With his hand engulfing mine, he I end up moving the steering wheel. We reach the little café on Apple and Plumsfield within 20 minutes, because Simon decides to drive at a glacial pace. There isn't much of a parking lot outside the little café, and there are no handicapped parking spaces. The lot is empty, though, so it doesn't make much of a difference.

Simon makes surprisingly efficient work of worming out from underneath me. Simon assembles my chair pieces, left on the asphalt. Still scarlet-faced, he pulls my chair around. I make sure my feet are flat on the pavement, before swiveling out of the vehicle and into my chair. Simon lowers the footrests, pressing them down with his foot. He waits patiently for me to arrange my feet, hands shoved in his pockets.

Smiling brightly at him once I'm done, I spin my chair back and away.

Almost immediately, I realize the ramp they've put in is too steep for me to push myself inside. He seems to have realized it, too, and his hands are turning into fists by his side.

"Push me in, please?" I ask Simon meekly, in a tinny voice, peeking at him from underneath my eyelashes. Eyes gentling, he complies. Simon stumps in behind me, a quiet, angering sentinel. He pushes me in, and doesn't let go of me until we're seated inside. The hostess realizes he's pushing me in past the screen door, and rushes towards us.

The hostess has tufts of curly, bleached blonde hair on top of her hair, and is apple-faced and plump. She's dressed like someone's homophobic Aunt, in a leather vest and a long, flowery skirt. She is staring at us open-mouthed. She composes herself long enough to smile.

"Hey, kids!" the hostess finally greets us.

I give her a stiff smile; her own falls nearly imperceptibly.

Simon grunts at one of the gossiping waitresses as we make our way in. He stops pushing me to move one of the metal chairs out of the way. Once I've pushed myself in, Simon sits opposite me. His face is a blank mask of anger, and immediately, and almost protectively, he wraps one of my hands with both of his.

"You OK?" Simon mumbles. "I'm sorry I left you there so long. And I'm sorry this bitch doesn't know shit about ramps." His lips start trembling and his eyes turn dark.

"I'm OK, I promise," I respond, giving him a big, toothy grin. "No biggie." I rub his hand comfortingly, and it seems to work.

Awkwardly standing behind us, fascinated as if watching a tennis match, the waitress steps forward. She reads us the specials and hands us two bright pink menus. I thank her dryly; Simon doesn't even bother. We read in silence, Simon gritting his teeth. I'm still blushing, meek-faced.

"They shouldn't even try with a fucking ramp if they can't even get the fucking angle right," he fumes finally, slamming his menu down on the table.

"It's really normal," I continue, switching gears, deciding to sound breezy. "I'm already used to it."

"Well, you shouldn't have to," Simon barks. Roughly, he slams the menu on the table and then loosens his collar, sinking into the chair.

My eyes are gentle. I smile at him softly; amazed my face hasn't melted off with fondness. Soothingly, I rub his hand, where a vein throbs. I wish I could climb out and hug him silly, wrapping my arms around him and rubbing circles on his back. I settle for pressing his hand against my cheek, hugging it to me.

He slumps down on his chair, defeated, although his lips are still set in a hard line. As I start to pull my hand awau, he captures it in his. He draws circles on my knuckles.

Simon changes the topic, trying to relax, and lets go of my hands. "Pick out something to drink, love."

Very quickly, I scan the page. "Uh…The white chocolate hot thingy looks nice," I say softly.

He roars out a laugh, but it's cold and bitter. It never reaches his honey-colored eyes. "That's the quickest you've ever made a decision regarding food."

I stick out the tip of my tongue at him. "It's not food, it's a drink." I skim the pastry section just as quickly. "Speaking of which…Want to share a Hot Fudge Brownie?"

He nods absent-mindedly, and I fold the menu. Once I do, Simon reaches out to take my hand again, cupping it with both of his larger ones. Gently, he strokes the knuckles, brow furrowing in concentration as he rubs the one on my ring finger. The waitress finds us like that.

"What can I get you?"

"We'll share a Hot Fudge Brownie…" Simon says, less stiff. "And I'll have a cherry coke."

"And your girlfriend?" the hostess asks kindly, as if I were a glass-blown ornament on the side.

My mouth pops open as a derisive giggle-and-snort flies out. My hand shoots out of Simon's like it's been Tasered.

"God, no! He's _not_ my boyfriend," I correct, a peal of laughter bursting out of me.

The hostess, Betty Crocker's look-alike, blinks. In turn, Simon's face contorts strangely before melting into a cool mask. His expression is blank, but his eyes swarm with an emotion that turns them stony.

"Oh," the lady says. She tilts her head to the side, bemused.

Awkwardness permeates the air, thick and stifling for three seconds. I study Simon's face; he's fixated on me, face tilted, eyes strange. The waitress, avidly, stares at us.

I break the silence. "I'll have a cup of melted white chocolate," I say, finally, as though an unbearably thick silence hasn't just passed. I hand her my Menu. Simon hasn't touched his.

"Alrighty, then. I'll be right back with the food."

Clearly bursting at the seams with morbid curiosity, the hostess retreats, steps awkward and silent. Once the woman is out of sight – if definitely within ear-shot – Simon finally opens his mouth.

"I really hate it when people start sniping around about other people's lives," I gripe, leaning over the table. "You can so totally tell she-"

"What would be so bad about me being your boyfriend?" he mutters darkly.

I blink, batting my long, dark eyelashes. He catches me as off-guard as the Brits were when Washington attacked – colony-loss, national shame off-guard.

"What?" I say, taken aback. A smile contorts again in my plump pink lips, torn between rising and curling into a frown.

He tilts his chin forward aggressively, face stiff and darkening. His eyes demand answers. Simon's shoulders are stiff.

"Well, eh…Nothing," I finally splutter, entertaining the thought for a millisecond. "I just thought it was funny."

Something flashes across his eyes, but it evades me, slipping elusively through my fingers. He turns defensive, nostrils flaring along with darkening, widening pupils. "Why is it funny?"

My jaw is so close to the floor it's miraculous I can formulate a word. "Well, it's…Well, it's because it's _you_, and you and I…we're not…it's not…I just, I don't know, I thought it was funny."

"So it's _hysterical _when I date you, but when Buzz Hemlich – Buzz _fucking _Hemlich – dates you…"

"Well, it's different," I say, entertaining the comparison for the first time. My brow furrows; I stare at him curiously, as I tilt my head to the side."You and I are friends."

Simon eyes me for a second, light and shadow waging battle in his face. "Why would it be different?" he spits, both shooting out and offering the statement.

My face contorts; a wrinkle forms at the top of my dainty little nose. "Well…It'd…It's different. I mean, for starters you and Buzz are very different people." I say it slowly, as the thought formulates. It hadn't really crossed my mind.

"Different how?" he demands, tone ardent, curling over the table, half throwing himself on it. "Different as in worse? As if I were somehow worse boyfriend material than Buzz fucking Hemlich? Because if that's what floats your boat, a half-brained, 200-pound sack of meat, then by all means, date away."

The statement made no _sense. _Immediately, I turn defensive. My little nostrils flare, and I sit up - pulling my body up by gripping the armrests of my wheelchair.

"First off," I snap, "That was unnecessarily rude, towards me, and it's _none _of your business what my taste in men is."

His mouth falls open, and he stares at me with outrage, puffs of breath coming out of his mouth. Yet he's shocked into in-articulation.

"Second of all, Buzz isn't _stupid_," I fume darkly. "He has a 3.5 and is in AP Biology."

Mention of Buzz eggs him on. Simon sorts derisively. "A monkey could be in AP Bio," he barks roughly, lips curling into a sneer.

"Thank you," I snarl back coldly. "It's good to know you have that opinion of my intelligence."

He seems to remember I have that class, too. "That's not what I meant!" he splutters, throwing his hands up in the air like the monkeys he likened us to.

Simon stutters. "You know that's not what I meant," he half-pleads, half-challenges.

Feeling lenient, I take his aggressive little peace offering. I stare him down for several minutes, chugging down on my lip.

"I know," I mutter. A beat passes. Three follow. He doesn't press me on the matter, just collapses back into his chair. He stretches both of his legs out; one of them ends up lodged in between the wheels of my chair and the footrests. Reminded, I lock the breaks on it.

Minutes pass, and we say nothing to each other. The lady stops with our drinks, setting them down. She wishes us a pleasant meal; I feel like scoffing. I push mine towards me, and begin taking tiny little sips. We stare each other down; my eyes are frigid and I hold myself stiffly. The brownie with its two forks remains untouched in the center.

In that moment, my phone buzzes. Quickly and tensely, I fish it out of the satchel from the back of my chair. We left in such a rush it still has all of my books for the pre-lunch classes.

**I can be there in ten minutes **

My breath hitches as I consider my answer.

**How? **

Alice types out her answer at lighting speed.

**There's a big oak tree to the left of the parking lot. I can get you in the car safely. **

I glance up at Simon. Lips taut, in a frown, he's glowering at me from the edge of his seat. He hasn't touched his drink. Sighing, I decide:

**Won't be necessary. Thanks, though. Love you.**

"Was that lover boy?" he demands. Quite abruptly, he lunges forward, arching his back over our drinks, trying to snatch it out of my hands. The table screeches, pushed backwards by his weight. I suck in a breath, shocked, and hold the phone to my breast. Roughly, he grabs my wrist, and pries it from my fingers, wrenching it free.

"Stop it!" I half-yell, shoving him backwards with the heel of my hand.

"It is, isn't it?" he cackles, pointing an accusatory finger at me, a maddened gleam in his eyes. I can hear his heartbeat, growing erratic. His breathing grows shallow. "It's _him_."

I stare at him, borderline horrified. "No, it wasn't," I say, too shocked to snap. My hand trembles as I retrieve my satchel from in between my legs, to stuff the phone inside. "It was Alice."

"The _hell_ it was," Simon growls, glaring at me. "You don't have to _lie _about it."

I fight back the urge to cry, as I bury my face it my hands. "I said it was Alice," I repeat tiredly, rubbing my temples. "She wanted to know where I was."

Simon narrows his eyes at me.

"And don't do that again," I ask of him wearily, eyes pooling with tears.

"What, invade your personal space? Grab you like a fucking ape?" Simon half-hollers, so aggressively pellets of spit fly out with his words.

"Yes!" I yell, my voice breaking at the end.

"But it's OK when Hemlich does it?" he yells gruffly, his voice grows so loud it starts to echo.

"If you must know, I've told Buzz a _million _times not to grab me!" I yell back, so agitated tears start pooling in my eyes.

"But apparently it turns you on," he hisses under his breath, glaring at me. He spits it out defiantly, a maddened gleam in his eyes. "Doesn't it? It makes you hot."

I gasp, so shocked the tears I've been fighting back to contain spring free. One after the other, my tears steamroll past the hollows of my cheeks and into the crook of my neck.

Suddenly, remorse flares up in his face.

"I shouldn't have said that," he mumbles suddenly, honey-colored eyes swimming with remorse.

"No, you shouldn't have," I retort brusquely, wiping off the tears with the back of my sleeve.

Frustration flares up inside me like a volcano erupting. For the first time _ever _in Simon's presence, I feel _trapped. _My hand trembles, shaking like a leaf, as I unlock the brakes on my wheelchair. My chest is tightening, skin growing warm, armpits growing damp with sweat. I want to _leave_. My breathing grows shallow and squeaky, as I consider my options. I won't get further than the ramp until he catches up with me.

"Why are you being so aggressive?" I murmur, my voice quivering. I wipe my sleeve against my eyes, smudging it with a white, frothy paste. Tears pour in place of the ones I've just wiped; my eyes are bloodshot. I catch their reflection on the window opposite hers.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he whispers, bowing his head. "It's just…It doesn't seem to bother you that…That…"

He growls in frustration, kicking out one of his legs and slamming it against the foot of the table. I squeal in shock. Eyes still wild, Simon grunts, swallowing heavily, and setting his foot hard on the ground. Roughly, he snatches a paper flower from where it sits, ornamentally, and starts shredding it to bits. His fists are shaking.

"That what?" I sniffle, still crying.

"That fucking Hemlich _is going to hurt you_! He's a jackass!" Simon screams, pounding his fist against the table. I jump, shoulders nearly brushing my ears. "And you just…You just...You're just into jackasses, goddamit. Is that what I need to do? Do I need to start acting like an asshole?"

"He's not an asshole," I say sharply.

Simon just glowers at me, his heartbeat accelerating along with his anger. He starts fidgeting. Agitated, he begins to swing his foot back and forth. I hear the sound of flesh being slapped. When I look down, I realize that's what he's placing deliberate kicks on one of my ankles. I gasp, my lips curl downwards and my eyes pool with tears, as I realize that he is kicking the ankle he was once untangling so gently. My hands shake like a leaf as I unlock the breaks on my chair, trying to push back. It makes no difference; his kicks grow longer.

My mouth is open. Small, squeaky breaths escape as I see a sight I thought impossible.

"Simon, stop!" I croak weakly in horror

I gasp, suddenly nauseated. My lips start trembling.

"Do you realize what you're doing?" I say hoarsely, pathetically, eyes pooling with tears as my lips curl downwards. I can't _feel _the kick, but it hurts, emotionally, as badly as a bone snapping.

Eyes still wild, Simon grunts, swallowing heavily, and setting his foot hard on the ground.

I feel sick to my stomach. My heart is beating hard in my chest, so much so I can hear it pounding. My hands are trembling. "Were you trying to – …?"

I can't articulate the words; they get caught in my throat.

My vision blurs. Clinging to my chair's armrests, I lower my hand and gingerly run my fingers down my calf. The spot is warmer than the surrounding flesh, bruising. The atrophy in the muscles and the lack of circulation has made me prone to my chair for leverage, I lift my hand back up. It's trembling so hard I can barely wrap it around the wheels on my chair.

"If you were trying act like a jackass, you succeeded," I whisper. "You _hurt _me."

Even though my hands are trembling, I manage to execute a three-point turn out of the tiny tables that make up the café. I knock my knees on one of the tables. Simon watches, wide-eyed and stunned, opening and closing his mouth like a fish breathing in. Furious, I stick out a 20 dollar bill from my wallet, and slam it against the hostess is standing right behind us, a couple of tables away, stunned speechless.

Mouth wide open, the hostess watches as I try to maneuver my wheelchair out of her establishment. My heart is pounding in my ears, and sweat is drenching my palms. Tears are dripping down my cheeks, pouring into the crook of my neck. As I execute my escape, Simon is freed from his trance.

"Nessie, I'm so sorry, love, I didn't – I don't know – I don't know what came over me …" Tears brimming in his own eyes, he buries his face in his hands.

Red-faced and puffy-eyed, I manage to croak something out. "Please don't," I beg.

"How are you getting home?" he stutters. He rises so quickly acidic jealousy at his easy mobility corrodes whatever is left of my composure. He makes the trek towards me so easily.

"Alice," I choke out. "She..She'll pick me up."

I start sobbing. It doesn't help my case; my torso nearly crumbles under the force of my sobs, making it hard for me to wheel my way out of the café. Desperate, I begin pushing myself forward faster. In my desperation, my movements grow clumsy. My knees bang against chairs and tables, until finally, taking pity on me, the hostess holds the door open. I finally turn my head.

I give the hostess a watery smile before exiting the door; I roll backwards a couple of feet, and then spin forward, knowing the angle of the ramp will make the ride bumpy. Behind me, Simon is watching aghast, his face buried in his hands. In front of me, under the protective shadow of an oak tree, Alice is waiting. The Porsche's rear is towards me; the hood is parked under the shade. I roll towards her as fast as I can, and she squats down. She opens her arms and gives me a tight squeeze.

Alice makes quick work of lifting me into the Porsche. I don't remember any of it minutes later, because I break down into hysterics.


	9. Outcome of Outbursts

**Author's Note**

**Chapter Summary: **Edward reacts, stepping in to defend his little girl, and hell breaks lose again. (I posted two chapters back to back).

**Where is Jake? **I DO plan for him to show up, and soon. I've even considered writing everything from his perspective after a certain point in the story. Having said that, I'm delaying his appearance for one main reason: he can't just show up or re-enter Nessie's life without major, major cause. I've tried to illustrate how grievously he injured her, and how much a spinal chord injury has affected Nessie daily. Even if Nessie doesn't let her injury or her chair define her, not a single Cullen will readily forgive Jake for it. **The Cullens wouldn't just let him prance into Nessie's life, without major cause.** Have some patience; **this is a Nessie and Jake** love story!

**Please review**! I love reviews and reply to them :) We reached 3,500 views. Thank you all for your support.

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><p><strong>The Outcome of Outbursts <strong>

He's in front of my locker again, knees bent to his chest and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Once again, my eyes locked onto the ridges of his forearms, the combination of protruding muscles and adorning veins. I see them in excruciating detail from the length of the hallway; I see his blonde hairs glistening under the fluorescents and the shadows on his cheek made by the aquiline bridge of his nose.

Once again, I hear the tinny, nerve-grating music of the Flappy Bird song.

When he sees me approaching, his face lights up into the brightest smile I've ever seen. It lights up his entire face like 4th of July fireworks, and his big, blue eyes sparkle. Involuntarily, my face breaks into its own kind of radiant smile, triggered by the sight of Buzz's smile. His goofy grin is so happy it makes the emotion bubble in the pit of my stomach.

"Hey," he whispers grinning, scooting away from my locker, so I can open it. My stomach flutters in my chest, like a pancake being flipped.

"Hey," I grin back weakly.

"How are you?" Buzz asks, eyeing me intensely. He tucks a strand of dark hair behind the shell of my ear. "When you didn't show up for French today, I got really worried."

I force my lips to curl upwards. "It's nothing," I reassure him. "I promise."

Buzz's brow furrows with concern. "You sure?" he asks, looking down at the ground with shame. "I heard a lot of the shit people have been saying and I…I just want you to know that I'm telling them to knock that shit off."

This time, my lips widen of their own accord. With one of my hands, I rub his arm. "I had a great time," I murmur sweetly. "Really, I did."

Buzz smiles, and gently traces his fingers along my jaw. I blush, brusquely turning my head away. Guiltily, he drops his hand.

"I, eh, I have to go to the bathroom," I say sheepishly. Technically, I have to push the urine out of my bladder with a sterile plastic tube, but he doesn't need to know that. I grab my knapsack, the one with the supplies with my catheter, and hang it from the back of my wheelchair. Alice gave me a whole water bottle to drink earlier, and I'd hate to see it come out the other end.

"I'll see you…eh…" I peek up at Buzz from underneath thick, butterfly lashes, the hollows of my cheeks pooling with blood. I don't want to be presumptuous and sit with him, even though with Simon gone, I have no alternative.

"I'll wait here," Buzz says, with sudden enthusiasm. "You can sit with us at lunch."

"You don't have to wait," I reassure him quickly. "I'll join you there, alright?"

I give him another sweet grin, waiting for him to nod. Buzz does so, reluctantly. I spin my chair backwards. I slam my locker closed, and then turn my chair, wheeling away.

I grimace as I wash my hands. My eyes are puffy and weary, that my face is blotchy and that my upper lip is stinging from being wiped so aggressively. I look like I have allergies, with watery, apple-green colored eyes. Sighing, I tilt my head down, washing my face down with water more brusquely. Done, I squeeze into the stall. Hanging my supply bag from its hook, I situate my feet. Using my arms, I pull up my body to lower my skirt and stockings. I squeeze a generous amount of sanitizer into my hands, finishing off by propping a mirror between my panties. Finally, I guide the tube into my urethra, relieved when it fills the urine bag.

The relief dies instantly, turning into dread, when I hear the clicking of five pairs of stiletto heels. As quickly as I can, I lower my feet from the toilet, placing them on the footrests of my wheelchair. Still entangled in my lowered stockings, I rip the urine bag open and empty it into the toilet. My heart is pounding in my chest like a gong. Cassidy and her cronies are about to walk in.

Maya Apkins turns towards my stall, and I start sweating. She raps several times against the door of the bathroom with the tip of her manicured nails, like she's the freaking Woodpecker. Past that door, I'm frozen with shock, holding an empty urine bag in one hand and a catheter in the other. "Would you _get out_!" she screeches loudly, pounding the door with her fist. "I need to put on a tampon, and I don't wanna do it in the other stalls." My heart is pounding so loud I can hear it; if either of them so much as looks down, I'll be caught.

"You are so wretched," Rachel Geller says, oozing disgust. "We didn't need to hear that."

"Well, whoever the fuck is in the cripple stall does," Maya retorts brusquely. Her pounding increases, and with it each pounce, a tear breaks free. My hands are shaking. I'm usually not this vulnerable, but something about Simon's outburst has put me completely on edge.

"Do you think Tiny Tim will be joining us today for lunch?" Lara Frier asks, emerging from her own stall.

Alyssa barks out a howl of laughter. "That's a good one," she guffaws. "I liked Stephanie Hawking better, though."

"She probably does look like Stephen Hawking from below the neck," Frier agrees, snorting out loud, "Backwards Butter Face."

The comment stings as much as a punch would, and I have to hold my fist to my mouth to keep the sob from escaping. Even though my eyes are burning like acid, somehow, I still manage to produce another round of tears. I clutch my belly, from which sobs are escaping like wisps of smoke from a chimney.

Luckily for me, Cassidy chooses that exact moment to speak. "Guys!" Cassidy hisses in horror, her voice high-pitched. "It's in really poor taste to make fun of the crippled."

"_You_'ve called her Bitch-on-Wheels," Maya Apkins protests with a cackle, moodily. "Hell, you'd probably still be calling her that if Edward hadn't heard you."

I freeze, struggling not to make a sound. I suck in air, making a screeching sound as it forces its way down my windpipe. I ram my fist in my mouth before it gets any louder.

Cassidy scoffs. "And I'd do it all over again," she sniffs. "There's been a lot of sexual tension between Edward and I since he threatened me."

Maya snorts loudly, conversation ceasing as the two other girls go into the remaining two stalls. "The hell there is."

There's a pause. Gripping the armrests on my chair, I lift myself up, wipe myself, and pull up my stockings. I pull down my legs, arranging them, and strap my knees with the Velcro. As quickly as I can, I stuff my supplies into my bag, put said bag in my I wait. I'm reminded of that Jurassic Park movie Emmett loves so; the girls outside the stall feel like the raptors, waiting for the park ranger.

"I need to put on a tampon," Maya whines, pounding her fist so hard against the door of my stall that it rattles. I whimper, terrified. "Get the fuck out. Unless you need special parking and shit, get the fuck out _now._"

Suddenly, while quietly sniffling and wiping off my snot with my sleeve, I find the last remnants of courage and dignity deep inside my entrails. "I _do _need special parking, Maya," I say sharply and loudly. Or at least I try. I sound weepy and pathetic, like a kicked puppy. Maya gasps.

I unlatch the stall door. More aggressively than I should, I spin my chair backwards, pushing the door open with it. Maya yelps, jumping with it. Executing a clumsy three-point turn that makes both Cassidy and Lara jump backwards, I re-arrange my chair underneath the lowered sink that accomodates it. Their mouths are open and their eyes are wide in mortification. My eyes are so puffy, bloodshot and bright. I realize I look like Dobby the House-elf, even though I can barely see through my eyes, at this point.

There is nothing but silence as I open the faucet, wash my hands rather brusquely, wringing each finger through the palm of my hand meticulously. I purposefully stretch out the silence, and finish off sprinkling the water on my hands against the mirror.

"I'll see you at lunch, girls," I say. My lips curl upwards into the most sinister, cynically sweet smile I can produce, as I flash all of my pointed teeth. "Edward won't be here, Cass, but I'll be sure to tell him you missed him."

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><p>Once lunch is over, I take off. It was absolute torture. I used to sit with those people, with the gang headed by Nathaniel Crawford and Cassidy Anthony-Geller. When it began, Without even bothering to pack any books or put on a coat – I'm still wearing Simon's sweater – I head out into the cold. I hate winter sunlight. At noon, it melts off the ice and snow still coating sidewalks. By early afternoon, the water re-freezes into a slippery crust of ice that makes maneuvering the chair treacherous. The thought alone makes me grumpy.<p>

On my lap, my phone rings. Sighing, I pick it up and open it, breathing a sigh of relief. Even though I've spent all day weeping, tears stream down my cheeks the second I see her name on the screen.

"Ali?" I croak, my voice breaking. It's the first sentence I've spoken since I told St. Marge's answer to Voldemort and the Death Eaters that I'd see them at lunch.

"Oh, cutie," she says sadly, the boundless energy gone from her voice. "I had to park far away from the main entrance because Mrs. James is snooping around. I'm parked 15 cars from the…eh, typical parking space. In front of Mr. Lynch's classroom. I don't foresee any issues."

"Alright, I'll see you there," I sniffle, trying to sound upbeat. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course I'd come, silly."

I hang up with a sad sigh, blowing off strands of hair from my forehead. Sighing, I stretch out my arm to push the button that opens the heavy front doors. After a night of sleeplessness, and a day of crying, the sight of the entire parking lot, and chunks of the wheelchair ramp, covered in ice makes me cry again. Tears blurring my vision, I roll forward. I can't feel my fingers because of the cold.

Once again, I wipe the now tender, raw skin on the underside of my eyes and snort back the snot on my red-tipped nose. To add insult to injury, my head feels like its exploding. I have a splitting headache in addition to it all. It doesn't help me navigate the ice. I lose control of my chair going down the ramp, but luckily I don't topple over. Other than that, I make it with relative ease.

Ali pulls up the car to the middle of the street, creating space to break down my chair. Once I'm less than a foot away, Ali jumps out of the car.

"We need to make this quick," Ali says, so quickly her words are garbled. She wears a hat, a turtleneck dress with stockings and elbow-length gloves, and a scarf is wrapped several times around her neck to cover her chin. Her cheekbones still throw rainbows like a five-year-old with a Bedazzler went crazy. She jumps out of the front seat, throwing rainbows like a disco-ball.

Very quickly, she lifts me from my chair and into the car-seat, gently nuzzling my cheek before closing the door. Then, Ali wheels the empty wheelchair towards the driver's seat and breaks it down. Fast, Ali lowers the front seat and stows away my chair, ending by jumping into the canary-yellow vehicle. She does it in the blink of an eye; I've barely pushed the seat backwards to give myself space to re-arrange my legs.

"Oh, sweetie," she says with a coo once we're inside. Surprising me, she quickly tucks her legs under her torso and kneels, scooting to wrap her little arms around me.

Resting my head on Ali's shoulder, I hug her back. I'm relieved I haven't burst into tears, as I'm so sick of crying I could puke. Ali rubs her hand up and down my back while she swings us back and forth. "When I Saw what those horrible, horrible girls were going to say…I wish I could've intervened, but I didn't see a way. But you handled it with so much poise, princess."

For the first time that day, I laugh. "My voice was all scratchy and I looked like Dobby," I mumble against her neck.

Alice shakes her head vehemently. "You could never look like Dobby," she replies, nuzzling her nose on my hair. "You're too pretty."

"Thanks," I snivel. She sits back on her haunches, and pulls out a handkerchief. I take it with a grateful smile, wiping off the salt residue lingering on my cheekbones. Alice rubs my arm, waiting for me to compose myself. I buckle myself up, and close my eyes. I'm so _exhausted_.

"Can we go now, please?" I beg quietly, peeking up at her from underneath my eyelashes. Visibly, she melts. I'm sick of feeling like a character in a Mexican Soap Opera. I've wept so much today I could give Moaning freaking Myrtle a run for her money, and I _hate _crying, especially in front of other people.

Ali nods solemnly, sitting down. Contrary to form, though, she drives several miles below the speed limit, like she's waiting for me to say something. I never do. I lean my head on the window, wrapping my arms around my own torso, staring blankly out the window. I hate myself for it, but I very much feel like "Stephanie" Hawking.

"You want to talk about it now?" Ali asks, more forceful and less gentle than she was this morning. "About earlier today?'

Earlier today, I was barely able to formulate a word, much less lead a discussion. Right now, I'm nearly as incapable of explaining what happened. The thought of the Simon incident makes my eyes water and my head spin. I make a noise like all the air has been punched from my stomach; I even clutch it.

"No," I say emotionlessly. I have no tears left to cry, but my eyes sting. Alice sighs, resigned, and floors the gas pedal as if doing so will loosen my tongue.

"Do Rose and Daddy know what happened?" I ask.

Alice sighs. "Eh, not exactly, princess. Jazz and I were off in Buffalo over the weekend. Jazz wanted to buy some collector's pieces from Gettysburg – these were supposedly letters that were sent before the battle." She rolls her eyes fondly, and in spite of my own pain and nausea, I smile fondly, too. "Jasper and I were on the freeway when I started Seeing things."

I pop an eye open, and see her drumming her little, glove-clad fingers on the steering wheel as she considers her words. "You know I can't see what happens to you," she says softly, her face contorting with guilt and remorse. "But I saw Simon, and I saw you as a blind-spot."

"What _did _you see, then?"

"I saw him growing edgy and antsy, and I saw you crying quietly on the way back. I wanted to be there to avoid you the awkwardness," Ali explained. "The visions started shifting, and by the time I really decided to go get you, I saw you heading home by yourself.

She stops, turning to eye me warily.

"But the point is, Renesmee, that I don't like what I _heard _once I got there," she spits out icily, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Frankly, I think Edward deserves to know what happened and I'm not going to make an effort to hide it from him."

_That _wakes me up. "You can't!" I rasp weakly. Just turning my head left hurts; just moving my head makes the half-eaten Pizza slice in my stomach threaten to rise back up. There's a metallic taste in my mouth and my head feels like dough being rolled up. "Aunt Ali, please don't."

The movement makes my head spin; the pain of the headache feels like it's splitting my skull and for a second I take a couple of breaths. Just when I think I'm out of tears, more of them come. My eyes are burning; they feel like my legs and torso did before Carlisle started medicating me for neuropathy.

"Sweetie, the things he said to you were inexcusable."

"You've never liked him," I retort with a hoarse cry, pushing through the knot in my throat. I feel so ridiculous, defending him like this. I feel like a walking cliché, like the victim of domestic battering defending the abusive husband. Immediately, I realize we've reached the periphery of my Dad's hearing range. Alice doesn't bother to deny it.

"And now I like him even less," she mutters, more to herself than to me.

"And he was acting weirdly before," I muse out loud, my voice tinged with desperation. "Ever since I went out with Buzz, he's been acting funny."

The strangest expression crosses Alice's face, a morphing of amusement and irritation. "Like he was jealous?" she asks, her lips curling.

"Jealous?" I repeat, staring at her like she's stupid. "Why the hell would he be jealous?"

Strangely, the corners of Alice's lips turn up into a bitter amusement. "You can be so obtuse," she mumbles under her breath, shaking her head.

I don't have time to even ask what she means by that, because both Rose and Daddy are pacing up and down the driveway. Rose looks weak with relief when she spots us. Alice has barely parked the car and Daddy has already nearly pulled the car door from its hinges. He squats down in front of me; Rose lingers behind him anxiously, wringing her hands together.

He practically assaults me, smothering me. "Sweetheart, I was so worried," he says. Then again, Daddy's so worrisome that he's going to thwart the laws of Biology and burst a blood vessel. He cautions me when I drink hot tomato soup, for shit's sake.

Exhausted, and relieved myself, though, I kiss him on the cheek. "Hi, Daddy," I mumble, when he presses me against his chest gingerly. For the first time that day, I feel really safe.

"I'm going to carry you upstairs, love," Daddy says gently, but firmly. "You should get some rest."

I nod against his chest weakly. "I should do it, Edward," Rose interjects snappishly, and gives him a pointed look. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear she'd titled her chin towards my crotch.

Glowering at Rose, he unbuckles my seatbelt and tucks his arms under my knees, where they dangle. Cradling me to his chest, Daddy lifts me up. He turns on his heel, careful not to jostle me, and flies up the stairs. Huffing angrily, Rose follows. At a certain point, she catches up with us and digs her nails into Daddy's shoulder blades, like she's trying to draw blood. He doesn't yelp, but I do. Without flinching, Daddy sets me down on my bed. My legs dangle, and my abdomen sags. I grip on to the bed, propping up my weight with my arms.

Rose gives him a scathing look and they glare at each other for a split second before Daddy decides to completely ignore her.

"Get out, Edward," Rose spits out.

For a split second, the tension in the room spikes. Daddy clenches his fists by his sides, his spine curving into a crouch. He looks like he's finally about to act on his never-absent impulse to turn Rose into a jigsaw puzzle. The aforementioned, blonde target raises both of her eyebrows, her full lips pulled into a sneer. The moment dies, though, and Daddy stalks out of the bathroom. He mutters something under his breath, and Rosalie snorts.

"Daddy, could you get my chair?" I call hoarsely, before Rose can slam the door in his face.

"You don't need it right now, love," he says, shaking his head.

His words feel like a slap. "I always need it!" I rasp hoarsely, so angry my tears start pooling. My blood boils and my irritation flares. I think I left a dent on the grab-bar I'm gripping.

"Don't cry, angel," Daddy pleads. "Please, don't cry."

He pulls the door shut before Rose can slam it. With that, Rose's expression shifts completely, and she squats down in front of me. She wipes off some of my tears with the pads of her fingers, dropping a kiss on the tip of my nose. "I'm going to help you get cleaned up, and then you'll take a nap," she coos adoringly, as she drops down on her haunches to take off my shoes. "You don't need your chair right now."

"I do need it," I mumble, insistent. "I always need it."

The fact that she doesn't _get it_ makes me shake my head like the freaking Little Mermaid when she's voiceless. I feel like a Bobble Head toy, even though nodding makes me feel like someone split my skull open.

"I'll get it for you later, angel," Rose humors me dismissively, pausing her ministrations to run her hand across my cheekbones.

"Now, Rose, please!" I beg weepily, feeling like a toddler about to throw a tantrum. Why doesn't she understand? Tears start streaming down my face as the frustration explodes. I need to have the _option _of independent movement, however limited, available.

"After your nap," Rose says, her voice losing its doting quality. She levers me up with one arm. I hold on to the grab bars around the toilet.

"Ok, but put it next to my bed when you're done," I sniffle. She sighs exasperatedly, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

Rose lowers my stockings, lowers my panties, and pulls down my skirt. I start unbuttoning my white Oxford and loosening the tie. Without batting an eye, she tosses the skirt on the hamper and sits back on her haunches. Putting my feet on her thighs, she lowers the stockings…

….and gasps, in horror. I'm always as pale as alabaster, and my knees are always either purple, minty green or gauntly yellow from bruising. But Rose's fingers are skirting over something altogether different. The bruise in my shin so dark it looks black. It contrasts with sharp, sickly relief to the sheet-white skin next to it.

"What's this?" she gasps in horror. Her fingers shake as they ghost over the skin. "Baby, what is this?"

I can't stop the thought. It strikes me that if I'd felt the force of the kick, I wouldn't have dismissed it as I did. I'd been enraged by the kick on principle, not the harm done. In his defense, though, my puny legs bruise like rotten peaches.

I nearly slap Rose in an attempt to show her the memory. I show her the wooden chair slamming when I tried to pull it out of its place, falling on my leg. Rose sifts through the memory, blinking. "That was your right leg, not your left," she says, eyeing me warily, "And this is _swollen_, love. You could've gotten AD."

_Shit. _I shrug, attempting nonchalance. "You know it's hard for me to notice," I half-lie.

At that moment, a horrid, thunderous bang like trailer trucks slamming rings out, echoing throughout the house. I jump out of a reflex, shoulders touching my earlobes. My heart starts pounding, and with purpose, I think of nothing, to protect my lie. I grimace, shuddering, and Rose just shakes her head. "That idiot boy can be so melodramatic," she mumbles irritably.

I freeze in horror, thinking she's talking about my perhaps estranged best friend, but then I remember she uses "idiot boy" more often than she uses "Edward" to talk about my father.

Rose finishes pulling off the stockings, raising my withered foot to press a kiss to its arch. "I know it's hard to notice when you hurt your legs, but it's your responsibility to pay attention, Ness," she admonishes, squeezing down the tip of my nose.

Rose helps me shrug off my shirt. "You should void before you nap," she says. Too exhausted to protest, I raise my arms so she can carry me off. She sets me on the toilet with its grab bars, which I grip to keep from keeling over. Smiling gently, Rose hands me a Speedicath. Using my hands, I pull my knees apart, prop up the mirror and squirt half a bottle of hand-sanitizer on my hands.

"I'll get your PJs, darling," she says quietly, while I go through the motions of sticking the catheter in. When Rose comes back in, I've already stuck the tube in, and the urine is squirting out.

She finishes dressing me. Levering me up with one arm, while I grip the grab bars, she raises my panties and pants over my butt. I squeal when she tucks her hands under my knees, carrying me bridal style. At that point, I'm so exhausted that the promise of crawling into bed drains the fight out of me. Rose pulls the blankets over my legs, tucking me in and kissing my forehead. "I love you so much," she whispers.

"I love you, too," I whisper, before passing out cold.

…. I wake up, groggy and disoriented. I blink, startled, realizing I've been sleeping for 17 hours. To my left, my alarm clock's glaring green light shows its 3:00 AM in the morning. Groaning, I lean up on my elbows and scoot myself backwards, dragging back my legs. Rose has come in several times during the night to flip me over and give me my medicine. I was sleeping like the dead, and wouldn't remember if not for the flip in position. As I scoot myself backwards, digging my elbows into the mattress, there's a _thump. _

I realize my right ankle is – or _was _– elevated, propped up on some pillows. I've dislodged it from its place, leaving it dangling uselessly.

"Dammit, Edward! A couple of punches would've been fine, but bruised ribs?"

Sucking in my breath, I stop moving.

"Are you suggesting I ought to have left the boy alone?" Daddy says emotionlessly, his voice like the inside of a tomb. My breath hitches, and a chill runs up my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "He isn't Jacob Black, Emmett. Leaving that _monster _alone was torture, but that isn't the case here."

"You could've just kicked his shin open," Rose declares flatly, her voice dry and callous, like she's discussing what color to paint the fucking kitchen.

"I did," Daddy says, his voice like a bucket of cold water.

I gasp loudly, realization hitting my like a proverbial ton of bricks. My breathing grows erratic, uncontrolled. Suddenly, I realize I'm sucking in air like a Hoover – inhaling without exhaling a single breath. Tears are pouring down my cheeks again, almost in rhythm with the squeaky, panty sounds coming out of my mouth. I usually don't _sound _like I breathe with more difficulty, unless I'm hyperventilating. When I do, even the abdominal binder helping me breathe loses effectiveness.

"Shit," Rose says.

I barely hear them come up, deafened by my own hiccuping. I'm still sucking in air, trembling like a little leaf, unable to let the air out. Peripherally, I notice Daddy plugging the night light into its socket, but I barely notice. My vision is growing spotty, like I'm looking in through a tunnel. I feel like someone is gripping my neck, blocking my windpipe.

"Sssh, my love, it's alright," Daddy says lovingly. "You're alright, sweetheart, you're alright."

His words make a chill run up my spine, like a bucket of cold water. My arms and chest start tingling. There's a screeching sound coming in as I try to breathe, a horrible scratch coming in from the back of my throat. My teeth start clacking against each other, a metallic clicking that rings in my ears.

"You beat him up," I choke out in a mangled breath. _You beat him up? You beat him up, you beat him up, you beat him up…._Daddy loosens his grip on me, realizing I don't want to be held. I keep on making a screeching sound as I suck in air, loosing sensation in my fingers.

"Edward, she can't breathe!" Rose chokes out, panicked.

"Sweetheart, calm down," he coos. "Try to exhale before you inhale." I do as he says. His advice steadies my breathing, but I find it does little to calm me down. My cheeks are turning bright red, blood pooling in my cheeks like all its vessels are there.

"What the_ fuck _were you thinking, Dad_?_" I choke out out through my tears and panted breaths. "You can't beat up a 16-year-old boy!"

I hiccup loudly, thus murdering the bravado in my statement.

"What makes you think I –"

I dig my fingers into the arm he has wrapped around me. "Don't lie to me, Dad," I sniffle. "I heard you."

His face is stonily statuesque when I peer up at him, expecting remorse to cross his face. It never does. "He deserved it," he said flatly. His eyes grow dark, to the point that I can't see the ocher in them, and he looks murderously angry. Where they grip my forearms, if possible, his knuckles grow even whiter. If he weren't personally so protective over me, I'd be terrified.

"He didn't mean it," I say, shaking my head desperately. Big, fat teardrops drop down my cheeks. "It was just a bruise."

"He didn't deny hitting you!" Daddy thunders furiously. "In your condition, a bruise _can _be life-threatening, and that little cretin knows it."

"By that logic, you should've burned Mrs. Michaelson at stake when she spilled that soup pot over me," I retort angrily. Mrs. Michaelson catered for my Nana in a benefit she threw for the county Children's Hospital. I was partially at fault, if not entirely so. Nana, lovely woman as she is, yelled herself hoarse. I ended up bedridden with AD symptoms for days.

Daddy grunts. "That was unintentional, unlike what this bastard did to you. He had every intention of hurting you. I read it in his mind, for god's sake, Renesmee."

It takes me a split second to push back the sadness. "An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind," I spit, instead of pursuing denial, "And you didn't even do that, Dad. You look a whole freaking head."

I feel like an idiot the moment the words leave my lips. I don't know if that made any freaking sense, or if he even understood what I said. A twinkle of cold amusement flashes across his eyes, and for a second, I want to punch him. I clench my fist by my side.

"You should go to sleep, Renesmee," he says dismissively, pressing down on my forehead as if to lower me. I push my arms up, leaning on my hands and not my forearms.

"I'm not tired," I snap, tilting my chin up defiantly. My nose is so stuffy with my own snot that I sound like that Wallace dude from the Wallace and Gromit movie, the one with the psycho bunny rabbit.

Daddy's lips curl up with amusement. "Then read a book," he says, lips curling into a sinister-looking smile as he turns on his heels. I glower at him, wishing I could fold my arms around my chest without crumbling like a Jenga tower.

He blinks at me, his expression suddenly dejected as my lips start to form a pout. Angry, I scoot backwards, dragging the dead weight of my body so that I'm resting against the headboard. Finally sitting up, I grab one of the pillows to my left and stick it behind my back. Daddy sighs sadly, bending at the waist to kiss my forehead.

I flinch away.

* * *

><p>I wake up again to the sound of hell breaking lose, and to thunderous rain. Big, fat raindrops spill down my window like the Victoria Falls have shifted location. The Brady-Addams Bunch sounds like they're about to break into opposing battle camps. Outside, in the pitch dark of the night, thunder cackles.<p>

"We told the school you'd be camping the entire week, Edward!" Jasper says so irritably it sounds like an admonishment. "Now what? It's not like we can show up to school tomorrow, because it'll be sunny again."

I open my big, doe-like eyes, blinking. I rub my eyes quietly, trying not to make a sound. A perk of paralysis is that it makes it relatively easy to do. Rose shifted me in the middle of the night, to relieve my much-abused little backside from bearing my weight. I'm lying sideways, propped up on some pillows with my swollen ankle raised. Unable to feel it, I didn't even notice.

"That one ain't hard to swing," Emmett says pragmatically, his voice empty of its usual mirth. "We can just tell 'em he was leaving later. Are they going to fall for it, Al?"

There's a long pause.

"It'll make them suspicious," Alice says. "Edward's truancy record will not look good if this goes to trail."

"Truancy record?" Daddy spits incredulously. "Most of my excuses are medical!"

At the same time, Rosalie groans. "Jesus, Edward. You just _had _to, didn't you? You just _had _to!" She lets out a horrible screech of rage(an ugh!) that makes me grimace.

"Are you saying I shouldn't have retaliated for what he did to Nessie?"

"Not like this, you shouldn't have, you idiotic, self-centered asshole!" Rosalie yells, stomping one of her stilettos against the ground so hard the aforementioned needle-point breaks. "You could have made it anonymous!"

"What was I supposed to do, Rosalie?" Daddy snarls sarcastically. "Wear a mask like one of those Mexican boxers?"

Esme groans. "Both of you stop it right now," she snaps. "What Edward could have or should have done differently is now irrelevant."

That particular statement shocks the daylight out of me. That is very outside of character for my grandmother, who refuses to use Raid on bugs and instead purchases items to lure them out of the property.

You'd think I'd be out of tears at this point, but somehow, I still manage to burst into tears. My eyes sting so badly I think I'd be less painful to poke them out of their sockets. I sniffle. Instantly, conversation dies. It's like they're a bunch of bunny Rabbits, alerted to the sound of the big, bad fox.

"So, as I was saying, I think Jeb Bush has a higher chance of – " Emmett booms loudly. He's interrupted by the sound of his own head being smacked.

"She heard us already, you big oaf," Rose says tiredly.

"I did," I corroborate hoarsely, clearing my throat. I push my hip down with my hand, scooting backwards. Gripping one of the grab bars on the side of my bed, I pull myself up to a sitting position and swing my legs off the bed.

"Darling, be careful with your ankle," Daddy suddenly shouts, anxiety thick in his voice.

I roll my eyes. "It's not swollen anymore, Dad," I grumble impatiently, putting both of my feet flat on the ground. I pull my chair closer, locking its breaks and grabbing one of the armrests to swing into it.

"Not like that, love," he yells again. Rolling my eyes again, I wrap a hand around my knee and cross it around my other knee. Gripping the grab bars, I angle my chair towards me and swing my body into it. Once I'm comfortably on the wheelchair, I lower its footrests. Finally, I arrange my my socked feet on them; my legs dangle, anyway. In the floor below, nobody says a peep. It's like they're waiting for the fucking Grim Reaper.

Which I realize is a fitting comparison, the second I catch my reflection on the glass window. In spite of a five hours break, my sobbing marathon has made me look like Voldemort's love child; my swollen eyes are bloodshot, red and look more like slits than saucers. The tip of my dainty little nose looks like I've dipped it in red paint, and there's salt residue all over the few freckles dotting my cheekbones.

It takes a couple of minutes for me to reach the ground floor. Rolling slowly, I wheel over to the living room. The tension is so thick it's like water vapor, making breathing difficult. They're all standing in the living room like marble statues, with Daddy on one corner of the living room and Rose on the other. Everybody's glaring at each other like they can shoot laser beams with their eyes. Only Alice is sitting, curled up in the couch, her hands on her temples and her eyes closed.

"So I take it my father's about to become some kind of felon?" I say tiredly, leaning forward in my chair. In response, the staring contest reaches its climax. Taking the lead, Daddy and Rosalie look at each other with so much antipathy I'm surprised nobody's taken a punch yet.

Nobody says anything. Trying to keep my cool, I chug down on my lip, waiting impatiently. There's absolute silence again, and I pull my hands from the spinners on my chair's wheels, to keep from denting them.

"I think I deserve to be told," I say angrily. "I'm at the center of this and it's not like Detective Vance and Chief Cooper represent mortal peril."

Again, there's absolute silence. "Goddamit," I finally snap, making a fist. I slam it against the hardest thing near me, which happens to be my own, dangling useless leg. Everyone gasps, the staring contest broken as their stony stares morph into horror.

"Don't hit your legs again," Daddy snarls, suddenly vocal. "And like you rightfully pointed out, _I'm _going to become the felon, not you."

It doesn't even take second to come up with a retort. "Because you went on some _pathetic, idiotic_ vigilante mission!"

"It wasn't idiotic," he says roughly, his eyes ablaze. "Protecting you is never idotic."

"That wasn't protection," I say, my throat starting to burn from all the yelling. "That was retaliation, and it was disgustingly unbalanced in your favor!"

Done yelling, I burst into tears again. This time, though my tears are propelled by their own existence. I'm so angry at myself for not being able to rein them in. A night of restless sleeping is catching up with me, and I start to jitter. Daddy says nothing in response, just looks ahead, stonily. He glares at the nearest object, Esme's cut-glass vases and the lilies spilling from them, like they're to blame.

"Who pressed charges?" I ask through my tears, wiping them off roughly.

"Nobody's pressed charges just yet," Alice says emotionlessly. "The police has been notified, because it was so very evident he was beat up, but they can't identify the suspect without a witness."

I gasp in a breath, my tears accelerating, making a noise like I've been punched. I wrap my arms around myself, weeping.

Rose glares at Alice, but the latter ignores the former. "I don't know exactly what he'll say when he regains consciousness," Ali finishes off, sadness coloring her emotionless voice. "Several possible futures are apparent, many of them blurred."

She looks pointedly at me.

I digest the information stonily, joining their motionless little reunion. For a while, I sit back in my chair, clutching my belly and crying silently. Maybe because everything from below my chest stands still of its own accord, dangling uselessly, I'm not inclined to stand still without fidgeting just a little. It doesn't mean I _can't. _In fact, ironically, when it comes to standing still, the few muscle groups under my control are better. Everything below my chest is dead weight; if I don't fix my legs in a certain position and restrain them there, they fall open or to the side. Although I take medication to control the condition, an unavoidable part of paraplegia is muscle spasticity, with its random twitches and spasms.

So, after what seems like an eternity, I stop sitting still, lost in my own thoughts.

"I should try to be there when he wakes up," I say, breaking the silence.

Daddy and Rose chose that moment to stop glaring at each other like they want to use each other's heads as fire timber. In unison, they redirect their softened glares at me.

"You're not seeing that faggot boy again," Rose says flatly. There are several masculine grunts of agreement. Emmett's, in particular, sounds like a Gorilla's.

I keep my anger on the down-low. Instead, I peek up at Daddy and Rose from underneath my thick, black eyelashes, big, doe-like eyes wide.

"I'm not saying I'm there to be friends with him again," I explain softly, "But I might be able to convince him not to say anything."

There's a shift in the atmosphere, like cackling thunder in the distance as a storm brews. Everybody reacts, expressions ranging from pure objection to mild interest. "Not that I think he shouldn't tell," I point out quickly, my voice hardening. "Clearly, my father would benefit from anger management classes. But this could become really messy, and it's worth a shot. If not for my father's benefit, then definitely for everyone else's."

Both Daddy and Rose jump on the idea like rabid dogs going after a wounded rabbit. "Absolutely not!" Dad thunders. "I went through all this trouble to ensure that boy wouldn't go within a 10-foot radius –"

"Did you mention that before or after you beat him up?" I interrupt sharply, with mock interest.

Daddy raises his handsome eyebrows, throwing me an acerbic glare. It makes chills fly up my broken spine, raising goosebumps in their wake. Almost involuntarily, my hands find the wheels on my chair, and I'm inclined to spin backwards. His eyes are pitch dark, the ocher in them gone entirely. I can count with the fingers in one hand the number of times Daddy's glared at me like he does in that moment

In spite of the sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, I hold his gaze. Alice breaks the moment, giving me respite.

"He'll soften his accusations if this does go to trial," Ali says finally, her face having gone blank for the entire three seconds. "His mother will be pressing for more, but the sentence will be less severe."

She pauses again. "Edward's going to hate me for saying this, but Nessie might even be able to keep him quiet altogether."

For the first time in the 18 years I've been on this earth, I don't grin in satisfaction when I get my way.

* * *

><p>Nearing 8:30 AM, I'm headed down the interstate towards the county hospital with Nana. Simon will open his eyes at 9:13, she predicts. I'm wearing a silver Vivani watch to tell me the time. Like all other outfits I've worn since I could wear clothing, Alice has selected it carefully. "It needs to look casual, like you threw it on without much thought, but pretty," she said. "Same with your hair."<p>

"A track-suit?" I suggested earnestly.

Rosalie wrinkled her nose like I've suggested wrapping myself in used toilet paper, and Alice rolls her eyes. "Track suits are for exercising," Alice says testily. "Have I taught you nothing?"

Track suit idea shot down, they put my hair into a casual bun – because the ponytail couldn't look _too _pretty, and they refused to mess up my hair – and stuffed me into a dress that supposedly achieved what Alice desired. The dress has eyelet lace around the neckline, which goes to show neither of them understands what it's like to wake up with a legitimate rush in the morning.

Nervously, I drum my fingers against the leg I punched earlier. I'm chugging down on my bottom lip like a dog eating off a bone. I'm sure that if I could move it, I'd be tapping my boot-clad foot against Nana's dashboard. Daddy wasn't there when Nana helped me into the car, and neither were Emmett or Jasper. I assumed some combination thereof was restraining Daddy from restraining _me. _Instead of sitting on the front seat, I'm in the backseat. Nana pulled me up onto the back seat of the Volvo, propping my ankle up on a pillow. She didn't let me transfer myself (and nor did Rosalie earlier that morning when I used my catheter), wanting to keep weight off my ankle.

"Darling, to be perfectly honest, I don't like this." Nana's voice is full of gloating adoration whenever she talks to me or about me. At that moment, her tone is flat, emotionless and disapproving. It tethers closer to the edge of anger than I've ever heard it, like a pendulum about to break.

My plump, pink lips have fallen open into an O. I hold back my "Say what, now?" Instead, I blink dumbly - like a vegetative patient communicating with a neurologist. "Why not, Mimmy?" I inquire in my most bird-like voice, without an iota of effort. I'm so confused I can't sound sharp.

Nana weighs her voice carefully.

"Women should run away from men that hit them. Nothing good ever comes from a relationship with such a man."

For the first time, looking into her gold-colored eyes, I see a 100-year-old woman. It's the first time her voice has carried with it in its inflictions the weight of a century's worth of wisdom and pain. Goosebumps pop up along my arms like daisies, standing up on the back of my neck. Instead of replying, I wrap my cashmere cardigan tighter around my petite frame. Her tone sends a chill running up my fucked up little spine. I'm left utterly speechless.

It takes me minutes to move past the strange, foundation-shifting moment. I try to formulate an answer. Miles pass with nothing but the sound of wind rushing past the vehicle.

I break the silence.

"He didn't hit me," I say softly.

"Your ankle tells another story," Nana snaps, in a tone so stern and so unusual I'm too confused to react to it. I huddle into myself, wrapping my hands around the thermos like it's a safety blanket. It's the first time she's _ever _snapped at me or near me – and I fear for the object of her rage, a boy I've grown to love.

Another mile passes with neither of us speaking; Nana looks blankly at the road, clenching the steering wheel so tightly it looks like she might dent it. I'd never seen such a look of blank, callous rage in her face.

"I kind of deserved it," I say meekly in a small voice. "I made fu—"

The breaks slam with a thunderous screech. I'm jostled forward. The dead weight of my legs falls sideways, falling onto the floor with a clang. I brace myself against the front of the passenger seat to keep from leaving a dent the shape of my head on it. My mouth has fallen open, and I don't think it'll ever close again. Gasping, I clutch my chest, were my heart beats so fast I fear I'll faint.

"Nessie, I want you to listen to me," she says hotly, her voice burning with a violent passion I hadn't _ever _heard from her_. _It was like I was looking at an entirely different person. "Nobody has a right to hurt you. There is never any justification for inflicting pain on someone you love, especially when you claim such a feeling."

At a complete loss for words, I simply nod, jaw unhinged from my cranium. Esme holds my gaze sternly, her eyes burning like she's let some floodgate opened. My heartbeats engulf the car, marking the tempo of the dance our eyes are doing. It seems like an eternity passes as we hold each other's gaze.

Returning to character, Esme breaks the moment. "Do you need help lifting your legs back up, sweetheart? I'm sorry I slammed the brakes so roughly, dear." Esme stretches her hand out and runs it down my cheek, her fingers gentle. My heart-beat drums in my ears, louder than ever before.

Bemused, I shake my head weakly. Gripping onto the locked door, I lean forward and pull up the Velcro-strap that holds my knees together. Crawling forward with my fingers, I lean down. I arrange the pillows underneath my swollen, warm shin. Gripping onto the seat and pressing down on them, I pull myself back up, stretching my arms.

"I'm not doing it to resume a relationship with him, I promise," I say softly. "I want to do this – need to do this – to make sure we don't get into any unnecessary trouble, Mimmy. I won't let him hurt me again."

Grim-faced, Nana nods once, gritting her teeth. She starts the car again, goes back to driving 5 miles below the speed-limit, at her typical, leisurely pace. We say nothing for the rest of the drive; she only asks me if she needs to turn up the heat in the car. I nod, even though I'm trembling for different reasons.

Unlike the rest of the Brady-Addams Bunch she mothers, she doesn't throw a tantrum when she finds the handicapped parking spaces are taken – all seven of them. Four are occupied by cars without the necessary credentials. Here I take it with a bit more stride, given ankle sprains and casts.

"People can be so inconsiderate," she clucks, sighing like a disappointed mother. Daddy, Rose, Emmett and Jasper have this irritating policy of waiting until the car occupying the space is towed and ticketed. Sometimes, they apply it even when I'm not in the damn car. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, we'll need to park further away."

Nana ends up finding a parking space literally _half _a mile from the hospital entrance. It doesn't particularly upset her, but she apologizes sweetly as she puts my chair together. She helps me into my chair, lifting me from the vehicle, and then puts a coat over my legs, protecting them from the sub-zero temperatures. Because there's ice coating the entire parking lot – black frozen mush – Nana has to push me. The caster wheels of my chair get caught on snow piles that haven't been towed and stuck in particularly fat ice-chunks. Aside from an occasional "Oh, dear," Nana shows no indication of rage. She presses the button with the painted, Hangman Wheelchair Dude, and waits for the door to open before pushing me in.

"Alright, there you are, Nessie, sweetheart," Nana says breezily once we're inside, bending at the waist to drop a kiss on my forehead. "You've got it now, haven't you, dear?"

I give her a perfunctory smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "Yes, thank you, Na – Mom," I say softly. I wheel forward, slightly behind her, watching as she greets the doctors coming in for their morning shift. I give them perfunctory smiles, too, suddenly feeling exhausted. I pay very little mind to the receptionist. Said receptionist throws herself at my grandfather, sometimes quite _literally. _In the Christmas party, she was so drunk she actually _sat _on his lap.

Again, my Nana makes my jaw fall open. Instead of acting acerbic and cold, she gives the receptionist a warm smile as she asks for Simon's room information. The receptionist makes some venomous comments that make me want to snip back, but Nana never does.

"Have a pleasant day, Madison," Nana says kindly once the information has been expedited. She gestures for me to head to the elevator, keeping a warm hand wrapped around my dainty little shoulder. With that boundless patience, Nana waits for me to spin my chair around so that I can go into the elevator.

It closes around us. I wait for Nana to push the buttons – I can't _reach _the buttons from a wheelchair –, but she doesn't.

"Nessie, we can still retract. I'm sure that if the boy choses to tell on Edward, we will find a way out of this situation. Edward was perfectly justified in doing what he did," she says, her voice filled with firm, unshakable pride.

Once again, my mouth falls open. "You can't be serious," I breathe, blinking up at her.

"Darling, you know I don't like to put down how very capable you are, but in your condition, self-defense, let alone counter-attack is nearly impossible."

I bite back the retort, the need to ask her if she's heard of Pepper Spray or Tasers. "The fact that I'm stuck in this damn thing doesn't make me defenseless, Grandma," I finally snip.

Nana sighs, the fire in her eyes extinguishing once again. "You _use _the wheelchair," she corrects with a wince, her eyes welling with a sadness that won't ever manifest in tears.

Nana presses the button to floor 15, standing on her tippy-toes. "If you insist, darling."

Almost immediately, looking at her devastated expression, I start to feel remorse.

"Mimmy, I'm sorry," I say softly, peeking up at her through my eyelashes. I roll a little to the side, wrapping an arm around the top of her thighs. I rub my head on her hand, feeling a bit like a horny cat but deciding the embarrassing feeling is worth it. "I didn't mean to snap at you like that."

I press a little kiss to the back of her hand. She strokes my cheek with it.

I chose my words very carefully. "It's just that, by your own logic, hitting anyone isn't justifiable, and the fact that I have a disability doesn't automatically make me more defenseless, nor does it justify what my father did."

Nana looks like she wants to argue, making a noise like she's about to retort something, but she doesn't. Instead, she forces a smile. "Your strength is inspiring, sweetheart," she finally says.

I bite my lip to choke back my irritation. I'm stuck in a wheelchair, not in a gulag. Plus, technically speaking, a wheelchair is like an orthopedic shoe – it's meant to help the user move. I've never seen anybody commend the over-80 crowd for their footwear. I'm not stronger for getting out of bed in the morning than anybody else I know. We all have handicaps. Mine just happens to be visible, and I'm not a candidate for a Nobel because of it.

I force a smile at her, feeling like I'm grimacing, and roll out of the elevator on Floor 15.

In the distance, I spot Simon's mother. Maria-Blanca Enescu, Simon's mother, isn't the prettiest woman, and that's putting it mildly. She has high, broad cheekbones, a beaky nose that reminds me of a parrot, thin lips and bushy eyebrows. Her jaw is small in comparison to her broad forehead. Having said that, Maria always looks immaculate – she wears heels, a black dress and a matching blue blazer. Her black hair is pulled back into a no-nonsense bun. Said bun unfortunately highlights the ugly sharpness of her features and reveals a mat of greasy hair atop her forehead. Today, I'm reminded of the beady, lackluster nature of her black eyes. Luckily, Simon came out like his father, a Mr. Johnathan Lowell.

When I emerge, her face breaks into a horrified grimace. It transforms into an acidic glare, and finally, into a forced smile. She curses under her breath in her native Romanian. She's never really liked me, and I've never understood why.

"Push me, Nana?" I squeak under my breath. I prefer eating cabbage to being pushed around when I can wheel my own chair. In rare occasions, though, it makes me feel a little safer. Nana obliges, taking her place behind me like a sentinel. Rather slowly, she pushes me down the length of the corridor, pausing in front of Maria. Much to my shock, Maria isn't crying – in fact, she doesn't show the slightest sign of having shed a tear. There are streaks of dark gray hair along her ears, which remind me of Cruella DeVil.

I start shedding many of tears, as soon as I hear the sound of a ventilator, pushing air in and out, and the sound of a heart monitor. Peeking in through the blinds, I catch sight of my best friend, and I start to weep. Big, fat tears start streaming down my cheeks. I clap my hand over my mouth.

Regardless of his tenuous status as my best friend, and in spite of everything, I still love him.

"Isabella, Esme!" Maria says with forced enthusiasm, forcing her lips into a smile and instead highlighting the ugly brackets around her mouth.

I still have a hard time with the fact that my birth certificate and all such documents say "Isabella" – I wish my family had butted out, and just allowed my father to name me after my mother. You should object to a dying wish when it involves connoting the female version of Rumpelkstilskin. Even then, it takes me a while to adjust to being called by my legal name.

For a split-second, I gape at Maria. She sounds like she's welcoming us to a barbeque. If I didn't know my own _father_ had beat up Simon, and if I couldn't see him, I'd imagined she'd staged the whole thing. I peek up at my Grandma and realize she's equally stunned.

"Miss Enescu, I'm so sorry for what happened," I say in a small, defeated voice. Tears pool in my big, green eyes. "Is he going to be OK?"

"He should be fine, Isabella," Maria assures me with a sharp nonchalance that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "There really isn't a reason for you to vorry. You shouldn't have gone through all this trouble."

I glance at my watch from the corner of my eye, wringing my glove-clad hands in my lap. It's 9:10. "Of course we did," I say softly. "I've been really worried. What happened is so horrible."

"I can tell you've been really vorried," she says. Her tone reminds me of one of Julia Crawford's snips, but this one is meant to sting. Behind us, I hear steps. The person in question slows. Mrs. Enescu raises her gaze. I roll my chair backwards, spinning it to the side to allow the person to pass.

The man doesn't, stopping instead. "Johnathan, you remember Isabella," Maria says emotionlessly.

Johnathan Lowell holds two cups of coffee in his hands. Unlike Maria, he looks both tired and haggard. His honeyed eyes are bloodshot and red, accentuating the wrinkles around them. There's white stubble around his jaw, sharp and square like Simon's. It's so evident he looks like his son that it makes me want to start crying. I know for a fact that he isn't the greatest father, but he looks utterly devastated. Simon is his love child ; he started working in HSBC in London, where Maria-Blanca Enescu was finishing a PhD in UCL. Simon has two step brothers, both older and both horrible bullies. He and Maria-Blanca never married, because Mr. Lowell _was _married when he conceived Simon.

"Isabella, hi!" He sounds surprised, but not chirpy, like Maria. Mr. Lowell's voice sounds raspy. Clumsily, he hands Maria her cup of coffee and hurriedly holds out a hand. "It's nice to see you, sweetie, in spite of the circumstances."

"You too, Mr. Lowell," I trill softly, smiling at him. He blinks, dazed.

He holds out his hand to Esme; she holds out hers like she's bestowing an honor. I notice how he rakes her body appreciatively, even as he flinches away at the touch of her hand.

"Esme Cullen," Nana says with the tightest smile I've ever seen on her face. "I'm Isabella's mother. We came to check in on your _son_." She says the word with a delicate cringe, like she's they brought a giant slug into the world, not a boy.

"Thank you for coming," he says genuinely, rubbing his eyes. "I'm sure it would mean a lot to him, if…" His voice breaks. My own lips quiver.

"He is going to wake up, isn't he?" I ask meekly.

"He has a bad concussion," Mr. Lowell says dejectedly, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, "A couple of bruised ribs and a broken shin."

Unlike Simon's father, I do cry at the mention of his injuries. I nod sadly, dropping my hands to the wheels on my chair and rolling forward. "Would you mind if I went in to see him? Just for a couple of minutes," I ask. I feel stupid for putting a time limit on my visit.

"He's not conscious yet," Maria answers sharply, her beady black eyes tightening. Esme inhales sharply, putting both of her hands on my shoulders to rub them.

"Come on, Maria," Mr. Lowell counters, his voice soft but sharp. "I'm sure Simon would want to see her."

"You're never hee-er, so you vouldn't know, vould you?" Maria snips, her accent heavy.

Awkwardly, Nana and I watch as they glare at each other. It reminds me a bit of Rose and Daddy, to be perfectly honest, except that there are no such undertones of hatred and resentment in how _they_ look at each other. Involuntarily, my cheeks pool with blood. I bite my tongue to keep from saying anything.

"Which is apparently a mistake, because you can't even make sure he's fine!" Mr. Lowell snaps back in a low voice, clearly embarrassed.

"You can go in and see him, honey," Mr. Lowell says with finality, turning to me. He gives me a tight, but genuine smile. I smile back awkwardly, lowering my gaze. Nana struts forward to hold the door open, and I roll in. I give her a reassuring smile, sniffling. She cups my cheek.

Taking a deep breath I roll into the room. Immediately, my eyes well with tears and I let out a strangled sob. Up close, his breathing sounds shallow, and weak. His chest is falling and rising weakly, covered in a chest brace much like the one I wore for a year once Black was done with me. There's a wire holding his jaw together, and one of his eyes is a deep purple. There's gauze over his nose, too. His hand is wrapped in plaster, and his entire leg is raised, covered in heavy white gauze. The scent of his blood is fresh in the air, blended in with the scent of hospitals and anti-bacterial.

I'm so angry at my father that my hands start to tremble like little leaves. It's like my father was trying to make pureed boy, and it just seems so unfair that I have to bite my lips to keep from screaming with rage.

I roll forward as much as I can, damning the freaking wheelchair. His hospital cot is one of those that are crib-like, with small sideboards. I roll towards his bedside, arranging my chair so that my face is towards his. I can't make it any further. I rip my gloves off my hands, and put a tiny, delicate hand over his.

"Why did you do this, Dad?" I whisper angrily, my lips quivering. I watch Simon, looking so small and helpless. Any of my lingering anger dissipates as I watch him struggling to breath. Tears slip every time his chest rises and falls, on cue with the ventilator in chest.

I keep on stroking his hand, my fingers gentle. "You're going to be fine," I whisper, so determined to believe myself that my voice shakes. Outside, Nana and Simon's parents exchange pleasantries; Nana's answers are clipped and dry. Her remarks about Simon are so neutral that they appear rude given the circumstances.

"My Isabella is _gorgeous, _isn't she?" Nana agrees after Mr. Lowell makes another polite attempt at conversation. "She's been dating the Hemlich boy. He's besotted, naturally."

Simon's eyes start to open – or at least one of them does.

I gasp, my face breaking into a blinding smile even while my tears accelerate. "Simon!" I yelp happily, weeping, with such relief I crumble back into my chair.

"Muh-ssie," he breathes. In spite of the wire on his jaw, in spite of how garbled it sounds, I recognize my name, how reverently, almost adoringly. The single eye he has opened looks dazed.

"Hey, handsome," I say with a grin, tears streaming down my face. I let out a sob.

"I wo wook wazzo," he mumbles, his voice garbled and rough. I have no idea what that meant, but I'm so relieved to hear it my smile widens, my soul uplifted like I'm hearing Keats' poetry.

"What, sweetheart?"

I try to roll forward. Failing miserably, I stretch out a hand to put it on his lips. I barely reach his chest, but rub it anyway.

"I wo wook wazzo," he repeats, his words slurred, this time by exhaustion. Annoyed at how my chair is binding me, I decide to move forward. Very quickly, I lock the brakes on my chair, and then I lift up the footrests. Placing both of my feet on the floor, I grab onto the armrests and inch my butt forward. I keep on moving until only my but rests on the edge of the wheelchair. I know it's a precarious position; in spite of the lap belt and their restraining strap, my knees are shaking back and forth, wobbling like Jell-O. Although I have to keep a hand on my wheelchair, the other one finally reaches his face.

"Don't say anything," I murmur gently, my touch on his face gentle. I run the back of my hands down his cheek tenderly. "I'm so glad you're up. I'll go get your parents."

He shakes his head vigorously, and then winces. I grimace. His stubble tickles. He raises his hand to wrap it around mine; I hear the crunching of bones, like an old door creaking. In spite of how weak he is, his grip on my hand is relatively strong. Atop mine, his knuckles turn as pale as my own skin.

"Dowt wo," he mumbles incoherently. He wiggles from the bed like a worm, his bones crunching. The sound makes me wince.

"Careful," I say softly, lovingly. "Let me go get your parents, love."

I don't know if he even hears what I just said; his eyes are fluttering close. "Ay wov yu," he mumbles incoherently. Aside from a couple of startled blinks and a furrowed brow, I pay it no mind.

When I look back on that moment, I'll realize I was in denial.


	10. Beginning of the End

**Chapter Summary: **As things sour with Edward and Simon, things warm up between Nessie and Buzz.

**The Beginning of the End **

Rose loves three things: her niece, her car and (periodically) her husband. Since she's borderline planning my nuptials with John James "Buzz" Hemlich Jr., the aforementioned boy ranks high on her toleration scale. Everything else lies along a spectrum, ranging from "tolerated" to "hated", by way of deeply disliked. On one end of the spectrum is Jacob Black. A couple of inches from Jacob Black on that scale is Simon Lowell. The irony is that her desired son-in-law is driving me to spend time with a boy she holds in less esteem than a cockroach.

For the past 13 days, Buzz has been driving me to the hospital after school every day. Nobody else in my family would take me, and outside of Buzz, I didn't have anybody _to _ask. After the fiasco that was our first attempt, Buzz has become surprisingly adept at lifting me in and out of vehicles. That day after school, he lifts me from my chair, sticking his hands under my butt with unheard of professionalism. As he lifts me, Buzz looks deeply into my eyes, dropping a kiss on the tip of my nose. I brush my lips against his cheek, smiling softly.

"You've gotten good at not groping my ass," I tell him once he climbs back into the vehicle.

"That's what you think," Buzz points out with a wicked grin as he pulls out of the vehicle. "It's that with Edward watching, I kind of fear for my balls."

I snort, laughing loudly. Now that I've gotten to know him, I've started to find him hysterically funny. He isn't witty and snarky, darkly humorous like Simon is, but he is funny.

"I think if he hasn't gone after them at this point, he never will," I point out.

"Yeah, well. I'll take my chances _after_ he stops threatening to stick them in a nutcracker," he mumbles.

"He said that?!" I squawk, my big, doe-like eyes wide. My lips shake, undecided between bursting into giggles and opening into an O.

"He implied it very literally," he grumbles, grim-faced. I laugh at the expression on his face, even though at times, my male relatives make me want to change my last name and relocate to Montana.

I squeeze his hand apologetically. "I'm sorry," I mumble.

"It's not your fault, baby," he says with a grin. "And _I am _sorry things are so strained between the two of you."

I sigh, blowing a strand of mahogany hair off my forehead. In the past three weeks, I've said a grand total of 19 words to my father.

I haven't been stonewalling my father, technically speaking; I react to direct comments and I greet him when he greets me. But I flinch away from kisses and hugs, and I'm curt to the point of rude when he tries to start friendly conversation. It would be heartbreaking if he weren't stonewalling me of his own accord, manifesting his disapproval about the boys I chose to spend so much of my time with.

One of them is the boy I've visited almost as religiously as Rosalie works my legs. Simon has been in the hospital for weeks now, recovering. He was taken off the ventilator a couple of days ago, but his broken bones have not yet healed. Buzz and I keep on chatting casually, making fun of Mr. Lynch, the Biology teacher, while he gripes and moans about Football practice. For the past weeks, he's been so sweet I want to – and often do – squeeze the stuffing out of him, like he's one of the big, fat teddy bears now sitting on my window seat.

We reach the hospital, where the handicapped parking space is luckily free. Buzz jumps down from his Hummer, pulls my chair together with practiced ease, and wheels it to the passenger seat. I've already opened the door and swung my legs out when he reaches me. He lowers me down from the Hummer. Much like Emmett, Buzz is well-built, well-muscled, and nears seven feet in height. The Hummer, a cherry-red tank-like vehicle, works well for him – but not for people using wheelchairs.

"You know, I really hate this car," I tell him with half-hearted grudgingness, as he lifts me up into his arms. Unlike before, I snuggle up to him a little.

"I don't," Buzz says, surprisingly serious but not offended. He holds me suspended in mid-air, legs dangling.

"Of course you don't," I retort with a chuckle. "It's yours."

"Yeah, but it's not only that," he says seriously. "It means I get to hold you every now and then."

I bite back the 'Aww' that threatens to escape after my big, blinding smile. I'm trying really hard not to turn into a walking stereotype – I never went to Junior High and I don't want to act like I'm mentally stuck there. Instead, I kiss him on the cheek, my lips curling upwards as I press my pink, plump lips against his stubble.

"Have a good practice," I say softly. "Thanks for driving me again."

"My pleasure, gorgeous," he says suavely, with a wink.

Impressing me with his acrobatics, Buzz pushes down the footrests with his own feet while holding me up. Done, Buzz sets me down on my chair, kissing the top of my head.

"Tell twinkle-toes I say hey."

I'm glad he can't see the look on my face, because suddenly, I'm stabbed by guilt in all directions. At least for now, I _can't _tell twinkle-toes I'm spending so much time with Buzz. A part of me feels like crying out, falling into a paroxysm, because Simon can't handle sharing me with another person, for fear of losing his best friend. In any case, it would be cruel to let him know.

"Stop calling him that," I admonish, but my big, doe-like eyes twinkle and the corner of my lips turns up. He snorts, walking around the car

Adorably, like he does every single time, Buzz waits for me to roll up the ramp and into the hospital premises before driving back out. I peek out the automatic doors, and waving goodbye. I blow him a kiss, blood pooling in my cheeks. Smiling stupidly, he waves back. Done, I spin my chair towards the reception desk. I'm beaming, unable to keep my smile from curling up.

Who would have thought I, Ren-uhz-may (Rumpelstinkin) Cullen would do shit like that?

Immediately, my mood sours as I spot Madison. There are two receptionists, Miss Kelly and the aforementioned insult to womankind. Madison flirts with my grandfather like it's her day job, completely disregarding the fact that he's happily married. Blonde, with codfish lips and lackluster blue eyes, Madison embodies the typical dumb-blonde that holds back her smarter, more professional counterparts. Sighing irritably, I yell out her name as I approach the reception desk. There's a chunk of it that has been lowered for wheelchairs, but the receptionist sits in front of the high-top area.

"Isabella," she says nasally, dispensing the cynical smile she usually wears. Her stilettoes click as she approaches the aforementioned lowered counter. "Here to see the Lowell boy, I see."

Curtly, I nod. "Could I get the sign-in sheet, please?" I ask surly, not even bothering to dignify the question with a reply. Honestly, she makes the Baywatch characters Emmett lusts after look like MIT physicists. With a wicked smile that reminds me of Cinderella's step mother, she hands me the clipboard with the sign-up sheet. I wrinkle my nose; her nails look like globs of dark pink glitter.

_Isabella R. Cullen, Simon Lowell, 3:45 PM, Friend. _

"Doesn't your boyfriend mind that you're visiting Lowell so regularly?" Madison asks tartly, leaning over the desk like she's trying to smother me in her globs of silicon. "People might start to suspect you've got two horses in the race."

Madison asks the question with such sauciness that the jab simmers naked between us, unconcealed by her smile. I hand her back the clipboard, pinning the stupid "VISITOR" sign to the breast-pocket on my Oxford. I arch one of my mahogany colored eyebrows.

"Firstly, it's unprofessional of you to discuss or speculate about patients' personal lives. I'm sure it's a violation of your contract," I say breezily. She stutters, her expression morphing. She grits her teeth.

"But if you insist on knowing, John–" Buzz is the stupid nickname he uses to let people know Buzz Aldrin baptized him "—drops me off every day. He trusts me. Which I'm sure is a benefit you've never enjoyed, considering _you're _engaged and flirt with half the hospital staff."

Madison's eyes bulge inside their sockets.

"Fuck you, you crippled little bitch," she hisses, narrowing her eyes.

I give her my sweetest smiles. "I think I'll pass," I say. "Like my Dad does."

Madison mutters a barrage of insults as I roll away, all of them under her breath, and all of them in some way related to the fact that I'm paralyzed below the chest. I've heard hundreds of insults centered around that lately, so much so that it stings less and less with every passing day. Having said that, I have an easier time stomaching "cunt" than its alternative, "crippled cunt." Madison has joined the ranks of the people that define me as the "girl in the chair", a particularly annoying situation.

Elevators are a _wee _bit tricky, because I have to spin the chair and roll in backwards. For some elevators, that's too much time, and the doors start to close before I'm positioned. I'm reminded of how much I really am "the girl in the chair" when I roll into the elevator, faced with the task of clicking the 15 floor button.

I can't _reach _it, and today, I can't afford to have the elevator door open and close. I hate sitting around like a mindless idiot, anyway. As the elevator door starts closing, I raise my middle finger, kissing it below flashing it at Madison. She turns bright, dark red with anger. Grinning, I wait for the doors to close. With that, my grin vanishes, and I tilt my head towards the _flipping button_.

Irritated after a couple of minutes of waiting, I settle for the next best thing. Rolling forward, I press the 4th floor button. I don't know what idiot decided to have 15 elevator buttons all lined up vertically, but it doesn't even _look _nice.

The elevator eventually carries me up to my grandfather's floor. I intend to waste some nurses' valuable time by asking her to push the button for me, but I have no such luck.I feel like the "I am Legend" character, because there are _no _people in the entire floor. The nurses' station is empty, and I wouldn't dream of barging on another doctor's office. Defeated and a little apprehensive, I roll towards my grandfather's office. I rap on his office door three times.

The door opens before I've even managed a second knock. "Hey, Grandpa," I say with a sheepish smile.

"Hello, love," he says tersely, although his eyes flash irritably. He sounds unusually jittery. There's a pain and exasperation etched onto his features that unveil his age; his shoulders are rigid, like he's tense. Much like his sons, he's uncomfortable – to put it is as mildly as a summer stroll - by the recent developments in my personal life. Aside from that, though, my grandma has been incredibly _vocal _in how much she disapproves of the fact that I'm continuing a relationship with a boy that 'hit' me.

Put simply, Carlisle doesn't want me in the hospital. It's unlikely he'll ever force me out of it. I keep my chair tethering on the threshold, hedging my bets anyway.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, darling?" Carlisle holds the door open as if to welcome me, but he sounds snippy and tired. There's a tightening in his eyes; Carlisle purses his lips, indicating as rudely as he can that my visit is everything but a pleasure. "I hope you are no longer visiti – "

"Could you push the elevator button for me?" I interrupt speedily, but softly, doing my best to flutter my eyelashes as peek up at the man.

A minute passes while Carlisle mulls over his answer, visibly aggravated as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "No," Carlisle says hesitantly, with a sigh of nearly imperceptible exasperation.

I feel like I've been slapped. Outside of medical contexts – "Can I skip therapy today?" being my all-time favorite – he's never said _no _to me.

"Any particular reason why?" I blurt, but regret the words immediately. Wincing, I wait for his reply. I should've gone straight for the manipulative insistence tactic. Or I should have brought a _reacher_, an assistive device that does the poking and grabbing when one can't. I used to call them Pockey-Sticks when I was little enough to think that was a clever little pun.

"I'd like to run some standardized dual X-ray absorptiometry on your lower extremities and a get a magnetic resonance image of your tibia." Much to my dismay, he starts to babble in Doctor. Insolent as it may be, I crumble back into my chair, already bored. "I've also noticed that in spite of the time lapse between the time of injury and the last time I did your exercises there's been little improvement in the contusion's color and some edema. Further, and most alarmingly, there's been unusual tightness in the aforementioned area, and you've reacted negatively to FES stimuli."

Last time they put electrodes on my legs, five days ago – the longest it's _ever _been –I started developing AD symptoms. They stopped the attack on its tracks, but the scare alone has kept me off the bike and off therapy for longer than ever before. I understand why my grandfather is so edgy; he's been walking on eggshells, unable to find the root cause of the autonomic dysreflexia. My ankle wasn't bruising any more…and I didn't think much of the increased spasms.

"You think I have a bone bruise," I say in plain English, a little irritably. "An untreated one."

"Yes," Carlisle answers so sharply I get all jumpy. "I should have run an MRI scan immediately after that…_boy_ hit you, but I'd never imagined there'd be damage, considering you fell eight feet just a week ago and sustained no bone bruises. I fear this bone bruise might be causing permanent muscle damage."

In short, Carlisle's trying to imply Simon's kick caused a crack in my bone.

Somehow, I manage to come up with a medically-loaded retort to that without even blinking. "It could have been anything breaking the bone…and if a fall didn't break my pelvis, I doubt a human kick would."

"Your pelvis regularly supports weight even though it too isn't subject to regular muscular contracture," Carlisle corrects in a clipped tone. In spite of that, he bows his head sadly, his eyes swimming with pain. "But I am afraid that might be the case in your legs in spite of our best efforts."

My lower limbs rarely support weight, which is what keeps bones constantly regenerating. Limited blood flow and reduced muscle contractions have lowered their mineral density (BMD), such that now, the bones on my legs and some of my hipbones are as fragile as a little old lady's. My pelvis regularly supports my seated weight, raising the strength of the bone – even when it's much, much weaker than it would have been if Black had never tried to play tag with a newborn infant. Vamps have BMDs ranging in the 3.5s, which is as far as the machine that measures bone density will go. It's probably much higher, as mine would have been if I didn't have a disability.

"Yes, well, brittle bones," I point out impatiently. "It's as hard to break my leg bones as it is to shatter Nan- Esme's – Baccarat wine glasses, anyway. You can't blame Simon for _that_."

His eyes darken with such rage that a shiver runs up my spine. "That _does not _excuse that cowardly, obscene excuse of a _boy_ should have beaten you!" he yells, raising his voice and clenching his fist by his sides. His eyes have turned as dark as the buttons on his coat, raising the hair on the back of my neck. _He_'s never yelled at me like that before, and the novelty of it makes tears pool in my big, doe-like eyes. "Point in fact, I _forbid _you from seeing him again, Renesmee."

For a second, I hold his gaze. My big, doe-like eyes, green like a pair of emeralds, start pooling with tears that drip down my cheeks. His own eyes fill with remorse and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Breaking the moment, I react– temperamentally and cornily. Tilting my chin defiantly, I roll my chair backwards so quickly the rubber tires screech. Now with room available, I spin my wheelchair around quickly, back in the direction of the elevator, flying down the hall. Carlisle sighs, jumping to a sprint behind me. Unlike the rest of the family, my grandfather is the only one that respects the space around my chair, the only one that grasps how rude it is to keep it from me. He won't make a reach for the handles.

That lowers some of my guilt at running – so to speak – from him.

Starting to make panty-squeaky noises that make me sound like a Golden Retriever, I roll past the nurses' station and towards the elevator. "Renesmee, for Pete's sakes, dear," Carlisle grumbles, now walking by my side. "You are no longer a child and I refuse to chase you as if you were one."

"If you don't want me to act like a child, then don't treat me like one," I say, wiping off tears with my sleeve. I thought I'd last a month without crying like a flipping baby. I was wrong about that, too. I stop in front of the elevator, raising my arm to call it.

Granddaddy looks like he wants to strangle me with his stethoscope. "Renesmee, this kind of defiance is rude and childish," Carlisle says "I've never given you reason to defy me so."

I bow my head with slight shame, the hollows under my cheek tinted pink. I turn my head towards him, my big, doe-like eyes glistening. "But he's _hurt_, and it's _my fault._"

A tear does slip free. Carlisle's gold-colored eyes follow it until it falls past my little chin, falling on a Swarovsky necklace of a clover. Sighing, he kneels in front of my chair. His eyes have gentled and his trademark patience has returned.

"Sweetheart, it's _not _your fault," he says, taking my hands in his. "As sweet and selfless –" two adjectives rarely used to describe my bratty self "- as I find your guilt, I cannot condone it. The boy inflicted more pain on you intentionally than you _ever _have on him, intentionally or otherwise."

If only he knew. "That's not true," I whisper.

"If he's convinced you otherwise, he's manipulating you," Carlisle says forcefully.

I shake my head vigorously, tears streaming down my cheeks pathetically. I pull his hands from his, grasping the wheels on my chair to keep them from trembling. "Look," I say in a quivering voice. "He's my best friend. He's the best real friend I've ever really had, and he needs me."

Carlisle freezes, a maelstrom of emotion waging battle in his eyes – ranging from devastating sadness to uncontainable rage. Seeing the elevator is fast approaching, I spin my chair around, backing it towards the elevator doors.

The elevator door opens. My luck flips over like a tossed pancake. "Dr. Mayer!" I yell excitedly, with thinly veiled delight. He peers at me through big, round glasses that make him look like Mr. Magoo. Even more luckily for me, Dr. Mayer was probably born around the time Florence Nightingale was, and is correspondingly deaf. I could yell through a loudspeaker and he'd barely hear me.

"Isabella, hello, dear," Dr. Mayer answers. I give him my most stunning, close-lipped smile, batting my eyelashes delicately. "Hello, Carlisle."

"Would you mind getting button 15?" I ask sweetly. "I'm afraid I can't reach it."

Without waiting for a reply, I spin my wheelchair around, so that the back is to Dr. Mayer. I glance coldly in my grandfather's direction. His teeth grit, and is glowering petulantly. Anybody else in the family, Nana included, would be dragging my wheelchair out by the armrests. There are some perks of being in a wheelchair, like handicapped parking. Up until today, limited elevator space hadn't been one of them.

* * *

><p>Immediately, Simon's face brightens the corners of his mouth so far up his cheeks I'm reminded of a chipmunk. He's prepared for my visit, as he always is. He's raised the top half of his bed, and he's lowered the sideboards on his cot. With that, I'm able to talk to him better.<p>

"Nessie," he says reverently, adoringly. He looks dazed, his expression bright like a little boy's on Christmas morning.

"Hey, handsome," I grin back, and I hear a muted groan behind me. Gritting my teeth, I chose to ignore it.

I roll towards him, parking my chair as close to his bedside as it goes. I put my hand gently atop of his right one, glaring at the IV tube stuck inside it. Tenderly, as if he's holding the freakin' Holy Grail, he lifts it, intertwining our fingers. He brings up our hands and kisses the back of my palm. "You're so beautiful, my love," he murmurs adoringly.

Outside, running his Emmett-like commenting session, my grandfather scoffs.

Inside, I gulp, a chill running up what's left of my spine. It's one thing for my father – who was born in 1901 – to use that term of endearment. It's a tad strange on a 16-year-old boy. He was gentle like that before, but never so brazen. I assume it's the painkillers they're pumping into him like water into a power station. I'd also be acting funky if I were on so many painkillers. Hell, I already act like a nut job. I'd be a hazard in his situation.

"You're on painkillers," I mumble with a smile, turning scarlet. "Sister Pru would look good, too." I laugh nervously at my own joke.

"No," he says vehemently. "You've always been gorgeous. Aphrodite would pale in comparison."

Awkwardly, I lower my gaze, biting back the urge to fan myself. What the _actual _fuck? _Aphrodite would pale in comparison_? Is he that high? Sure, my grandfather's been known to pull shit like that out of left field, but he also says things like "lily-livered coward" when he forgets the phrase died with Shakespeare. I sigh, flustered.

Fighting back the discomfort, I chose to chortle awkwardly instead. My palm, where he grips it with surprising strength, is soaking wet with sweat. Still blushing and unable to meet his gaze, I start focusing on the threads on his scratchy blanket.

There's a moment of lengthy, suffocating and awkward, silence. I'm surprised sweat hasn't started dripping down my palm.

To break it, I brave a comment, peeking up at him through dark, butterfly eyelashes. "Speaking of looks, what's up with the eye-patch, Blackbeard?"

I keep my tone light. I use my question it as an excuse to wrench my fingers free. I run them with a feather light touch across his purple, wire-held jaw, along the sickly yellow around the aforementioned he starts to close his eye in response to the touch, I pull my hand like it's been Tasered.

Instead, I twine my hand with it's pair, pulling it under my chin. His expression darkens, and his eye drifts hungrily towards the aforementioned hand.

"Traumatic iritis," he mutters, his teeth gritting. "The condition makes the iris photophobic. Plus, my lenses got stuck in the eye when it was punched. They removed it surgically shortly. They worry I'll develop glaucoma."

The guilt stabs me like a vice, contorting my throat. My shoulders droop, falling into my stomach. Crestfallen, I look at him sadly. My lips turn downwards, and my eyes swell with tears. "I'm _so _sorry," I say earnestly in a tinny voice.

Awkwardly, I start biting down on my lips, wringing my hands together underneath my dainty little chin. I feel like if I could tap my foot, I would. Tears threaten to sting my eyes, but they never do. Instead, guilt-wrecked and looking like Puss-in-Boots, I gaze at Simon.

He seems to notice my discomfort, and changes the subject. "I bought you something," he declares portentously.

Oh, dear Jesus.

"A-again?" I stammer, with my nervous chortle. This time round, I do loosen the tie I wear as part of the uniform. I sound like he's telling me a baby pooped into a diaper I must change. "You really didn't have to."

"I really did," he retorts. With his IV-bound hand, the one that isn't covered in plaster, he reaches _under his pillow. _I shiver.

"Open it, love," he says with imperious enthusiasm.

I hesitate before taking the little box. I'd never thought I'd see the day I'd be horrified to see a 'Cartier' box. My stomach sinks, like it's trying to dislodge my uterus. "I can't accept this," I say breathily, flustered. I can't feel my fingers as it is, so I mean it quite literally.

"You haven't even looked at it," he growls impatiently, stretching it out so that it pokes my dainty little nose.

"You already got me the loveliest charm," I insist, picking it from where it hangs on my wrist along with a collection of other charms. Up until a couple of days ago, I'd only been touched by the lovely collection, not terrified. Yet in a bout of drug-addled mumbling, Simon had told me the latest addition to my bracelet was 18k gold with platinum diamonds. It cost 8,250 dollars, and drug-addled Simon had no trouble informing me of its price.

I've started to suspect the bracelet on my wrist, the one that gets caught in my chair-wheels and has gotten squirted with my urine, is worth two years of college tuition. A knot starts to form in my throat at the desperation in his eyes, the anger brewing in them. I start breathing heavily, flicking my teeth with my bottom lip.

"Open it, Isabella," he says forcefully, his eyes bright with excitement.

_He isn't in his right mind_, I remind myself, _he isn't in his right mind. _Trembling, I grab the box and pull the latch around it.

I grow dizzy.

"Oopsie daisies!" I squeal, feeling like I've been punched. I grunt like the air has been punched from my stomach, wincing. Inside the box is a panther-shaped mass of platinum diamonds incrusted in white gold, dotted with black diamonds. It's the size of half my palm.

Simon is smiling smugly, his eyes triumphant. "It's a brooch," he declares triumphantly. "I know you aren't fond of canines, so I thought a feline would do." He laughs boisterously at his own joke. He leans forward, grasps my chin.

"You like it, don't you, sweetheart?"

I nod, breathing heavily, dazed.

I'm sure the nauseated breathlessness I feel isn't what he was going for. I debate telling him that, until I'm reminded he's had so many painkillers he could be singlehandedly funding a drug-cartel.

"Simon, I can't accept this," I say seriously, shaking my head. My big, doe-like eyes are wide. "It's too much. It's lovely, but I can't."

Slowly, the twist of his lips – a smile, I realize – unfurls. He grits his teeth, sitting up on his bed. Gradually, his expression of pure delight turns into a stony grimace, as he processes the words.

"It isn't too much," he says emotionlessly. "It's what it takes for you to forgive me."

My eyes start to sting. "I already forgave you," I murmur.

"If you have, put it on," he demands, jutting his chin up defiantly. He glares at me, although the delighted gleam in his eye reappears. With it, my hands go numb and my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach.

"Come on," he urges. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair."

He laughs heartily at his own joke, his eyes sparkling like the Mad Hatter's. My hands tremble like maracas as I untie the dark green ribbon in my hair. I loosen the hair-tie keeping my French braid together. Deftly, I comb my fingers through the curls it left in its wake.

As the freed hair cascades down, Simon groans with pleasure, a guttural sound as if he's tormented. He leans back into his pillows, his eyes hooded. Still shaking, I pull some of my hair into a half up-do, and tie it together with the broche. It weighs heavily in my palm; I leave a scant amount of hair down, sure it will need a lot of hair to be held up. Realizing even isn't enough, I drop all of my hair, pulling it back up into a twist. It takes several times for me to manage to close the latch.

My numb fingertips are trembling.

"See, _veata mea_, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Simon murmurs throatily, running his rough fingers across my cheekbone. When he pulls them away, his fingers are moist with tears I didn't know I'd been crying.

He licks his fingers.

I cry out, squealing. My vision grows spotty. Up in my throat, my heart is beating so fast I start to feel light headed. Although I can't feel them, much like I can't feel my toes, I drop my hands. "Ineedtogo," I mumble quickly, unlocking the breaks on my chair. Clumsily, I spin it around. I barely hear his hearty protests past the drumming in my ears.

I crank the door open, executing the typical pull-and-spin. I'm surprised I don't wrench the door out of its frame. Outside, Carlisle is waiting with a resigned, saddened expression.

"I would rather not say I told you so, sweetheart, but…"

"Then don't."

* * *

><p>From that day onwards, time flies and crawls. I get in the chair every morning, head to school, eat lunch with my family, and head back out. My afternoons are filled with therapy and relentless swimming.<p>

It's been four weeks since my first date with Buzz, and since then, we've gone out three times. By that, I mean that he's asked me out deliberately three times. I've seen him at bonfires, and parties outside of school. Since he's become quarterback, I've made a pointed effort to go to football games, usually with Rose and Alice so they can carry me up bleachers. A more realistic thing would be to take Emmett, but I wouldn't put it past him to sabotage John James 'Buzz' Hemlich by coating the football in Crisco.

I hesitate to call it dating, even though the vast majority of school does.

All three dates, Daddy Dearest and his cohorts – joined in a bout of macho insanity by Granddaddy – have attempted intimidation in the style of the FBI. Daddy and Jasper _went into the movie theater right behind us. _To give them something to freak about, I gave Buzz a light peck on the cheek _and _cuddled up to him. By the way they acted after, you'd think they'd just witnessed me going at it like a horny monkey.

Buzz has been willing to ignore my stupid Uncles and father. At times, I feel like it speaks for his overwhelming, genuine infatuation. Dark at night, when not even possums are up, I change my mind. Late at night, I think the boy has high-standards for the lips he wants wrapped around his teeny-weeny. There's an off-color joke circulating that his "cock is at my first level." We haven't gone that far yet, and sometimes, I feel like I'll consider a monastic vocation before I consider going anywhere near _that _crotch_. _As it is, we're chaperoned so aggressively that last time, he barely touched my breasts for _three _minutes before my Dad virtually destroyed the doorbell of his house.

When it comes to the physical, it feels like there are two different boys. One of them kisses me on the tip of the nose, on my peach-colored eyelids, so very gently that my heart feels like it's going to burst. He'll brush his lips against my knuckles and snap at Cassidy and her little Death Eaters when they get too bitchy. I'll be the first person he kisses when he wins a Football game, and the girl he wraps around his jacket every day. When he knows I'm feeling vulnerable around the circle of jackasses he calls friends, he'll sit me on his lap, nuzzling my neck very gently. He'll wrap his arms around me almost protectively. When he kisses me, oh so very gently, nibbling and biting, my stomach leaps into my throat.

The other boy is very much the "horny little shithead" Emmett threatens to pummel every morning. When Buzz gets _really _carried away, it feels like I'm letting him wiggle his tongue inside my mouth. Last time we kissed, his hands went straight to my boobs. I wiggled and groaned, shell-shocked by the feeling. Perhaps because the rest of my body can't feel touch, the parts that do are incredibly sensitive to it. In retrospect, though, it wasn't an out-of-body experience. Fireworks didn't go off, and I didn't feel lighter than air. It was just _nice_, like eating Madeleines and soaking in a warm tub.

It also felt anticlimactically crude.

In spite of my own opinion, Buzz has been telling people I'm an excellent kisser. At first, I thought he was full of shit and I was ready to confront him about it. Lately, though, he's been looking at me like a blind man seeing the sun. His kisses are so gentle, so loving that I can't help but blush. He'll kiss the tip of my nose, the tip of my eyelids, play with my hair, and look absolutely besotted. My room has started to look like a florist's shop. A part of me is thrilled.

Another, predominant part of me has no opinion.

Rosalie's exemplifying how I _should _be acting.

She's giggly all the time, happy for no reason. Every time I walk into a room – so to speak – she beams at me as though I've cured cancer. When Buzz and I eat lunch together – even if we don't sit _next _to each other – Rose will watch us the entire time, engrossed. She doesn't even pretend to be doing something else. Every time Buzz walks anywhere near her, Rose waves at him like a hardcore fan looking at a rock star, giggling like a brainless preteen. Last week, Buzz (his real name is John James) admitted that he's nick-named after his godfather, Buzz Aldrin. When he said that, Rosalie squealed as though she'd just won the lottery.

Rose squeals like the skin is being flailed from her body every time I get a delivery – be it a large teddy bear or a floral arrangement. When Rose does my hair, she asks if I think Buzz will like it styled so. Dressing me up has turned into a strategizing session. Will he like it? Is it best to let him window shop? Isn't that top too trashy? Buzz is less likely to think me a "serious prospect" if the neckline is too low. My breasts aren't breasts anymore; they are my assets. Does the shirt highlight said "assets"? On Casual Fridays – every two weeks – I've started wearing UChicago hoodies with jeans and a casual knot at the top of my head, just to annoy her.

"I was thinking, sweetheart," Rose said the other day. "There's a wonderful summer program at Yale. Wouldn't you like to go?" I was sure the interest in Yale had less to do with the school's reputation and more with the fact that Buzz had a legacy spot guaranteed. Flatly, I said no. To that she said, "Well, honey, we ought to hedge our bets. If you want to go off to college with Buzz…"

Even Emmett is annoyed at her. My love life has caused a sort of marital rift, as Emmett has been pointedly encouraging me to impose a lifelong penis embargo – or to produce one by his own means. By the looks of it, Rosalie's life ambition has been the total current turn of events delights her, and she's is humming to herself while she runs her fingers lovingly through my hair.

I'm sitting on my wheelchair, tapping my nails against its armrest. Like the entire Brady Bunch, I'm pretending to watch ESPN as I wait to get picked up. Unlike times previous, the air isn't thick with barely breathable tension. Instead, both Emmett and Jasper are visibly trying to lounge back. Dumb and Dumber wear expressions of defeated resignation. Daddy, on the other hand, is sitting on an armchair, tight-lipped, glowering into the distance.

Rose is humming "Heart and Soul." She hums the Wedding March when she thinks no one is listening.

I'm waiting to be picked up by John James Hemlich. Rosalie's taken to calling him that, preferring a dignified John irrespective of the fact that "his nickname Buzz shows how well-connected he is." My "parents" have started to call him that, too.

"Relax, baby girl," Jasper says, himself testy. Immediately, I feel a wave of relaxation. I welcome it, leaning back in my chair. In spite of my soothed nerves, I'm still antsy.

I glance at my watch, a white gold band wrapped around my wrist. It's replaced the charm bracelet I wore for _months_, with almost religious discipline towards the end of my relationship with its giver. It's waiting in a velvet box, for me to make a decision about what I will do with it.

Underneath the watch, my wrist looks like bare bones, an illusion exacerbated by my skin color. In spite of the fact that we didn't think it possible, I've lost weight. For the first time in my life, I truly look like the undead. My eyes look like saucers, surrounded by swollen bags of dark purple. My cheeks have hollowed, looking like I sucked my cheeks in. I wasn't even remotely chubby before, but whatever fat there was before is completely gone. My spine and the titanium rods stabilizing it have come into sharp relief. It's a visual reminder of the diagnosis Carlisle made three weeks ago, whereby the bones in my legs are brittle enough to qualify for osteoporosis.

Today is the 1st of March. It's been nearly two months since Big Foot appeared out of thin air and vanished into it. It's been six weeks since my father made puree out of Simon Lowell, presumably _truly _causing irreparable damage. It's been four weeks since I last spoke to my former best friend, but not the last time we've communicated, by any stretch of the imagination.

Simon calls me relentlessly. I hear the beeps several times a day, of phone calls and messages delivered into a phone I'm no longer using. The house is filled with potpourri made out of flowers. Every week – on a Wednesdays, at 4:15 – marking the weekly anniversary of the day I last spoke to him, Simon sends a vase of bougainvillea flowers. Unlike Buzz, Simon knows they're my favorite flower. It almost hurts to massacre the floral arrangements, bushel-sized plants spilling the dark and light pink flowers, dotted with white.

I do it anyway.

Looking up from my watch, I realize Daddy's staring at me. His brow is furrowed with concern, his eyes gentle. Speaking of strained relationships, he and I haven't improved our relationship. I may no longer be speaking to Simon, but that doesn't excuse Daddy's behavior. I'm no longer pursuing half-ass stonewalling, but we're not even remotely close. The emotional distance between us has never been wider.

The bell rings, the tension spikes, and my musings stop. The silence engulfing the house becomes so pronounced I can hear water moving through the pipes. I can hear Buzz's heart pounding outside. Inside my chest, my own heart is struggling to push blood through.

"Can we pretend to be normal, this time around?" I ask tiredly. Dropping my hands to the wheels of my chair, I roll out of the living room into the foyer. Carlisle's opening the door.

"John, it's good to see you, son," he says. Compared to how cold he's been before, he sounds as warm as Barney would in his TV shows. My brow furrows, and I tilt my head sideways, confused. Once they're done shaking hands, Buzz doesn't shake his as if to re-start the blood flow or stretch out his fingers.

"You too, Dr. Cullen, sir," Buzz says with a polite, if slightly tight, smile. Buzz looks as confused as I feel. He looks really handsome in a button-down shirt rolled up to his sleeves, and a pair of dark jeans. Tucked under his arm is a big, fat, stuffed hippo, the size of my torso.

"Would you like to come in for some coffee?" my grandfather offers regally, stretching out his hand into the foyer.

Finally, they manage to unhinge my jaw. Buzz looks equally dumfounded, and his eyes flit back and forth nervously. I, too, wonder if they've poisoned his coffee. "That's really sweet of you, Daddy," I interject quickly, rolling into view. "But we've got places to be and people to see."

For a second, if only for a moment, Buzz's eyes meet mine, and I meet his. Warmth spreads from the tip of tip-toes that haven't ever really felt it, rushing all the way to my cheeks. His face lights up. Mine does, too. I smile mischievously, and he grins back.

For a second, we exist in a bubble.

Rosalie bursts it. "John, sweetie!" she coos, in a voice loud enough to blow out eardrums. I roll my eyes, sucking back a huff of irritation. A flash of terror crosses his face before he forces a smile. Anybody else would be upset at their hot-as-sin "sister" kissing their boyfriend. But Rose is acting like a deranged, conniving 40-year-old, cougaring after young boys. Buzz looks a little awkward, not at all like he's being pecked by a girl that was once offered a 16-million dollar contract by Hugh Hefner.

"Rose, it's good to see you, too," Buzz coughs, awkwardly – good like the yearly visit to the urologist is good: necessary, awkward and slightly painful.

He takes a couple of steps towards me; I bridge the distance, wheeling forward.

"Here you go," he offers with a shrug, his ears turning pink. He hands me the giant stuffed Hippo. Touched by the gesture, I hug it to my chest, nuzzling my chin on its head.

"Thank you," I murmur with a bright smile, swinging back and forth with the animal. "He's the cutest."

"I thought teddy bears were getting old," he said with a grin, hands shoved awkwardly. "They only had puppies at the store and I know you don't like those, so this guy was the next best thing."

"I love him," I promise him, beaming.

I roll forward, and he puts his hand on my shoulder. I grab it with my own hand, twining my fingers through his. Now more than ever before, my fingers look as fragile as porcelain. I hand the stuffed Hippo to Rosalie a little forcefully. She grabs it with as much joy as if she were receiving my newborn baby.

"Uh, I wanted us to stop for hamburgers before we headed off, if that's OK with you, Ness," he says. "God knows you need one."

"Yeah, hamburgers sound great," I lie with real enthusiasm. I doubt I'll be able to eat half a happy meal, with the way my appetite is going. Earlier this morning, I felt so sick after drinking my family's red-colored liquid of choice that I probably reacted to it like a real human would.

"She's feeling a little ill, John," Carlisle cautions. Ah, there it is. I almost smile.

"I'll have nuggets," I interject, before Buzz's smile dies. I drop my hand, propelling myself forward on my chair. "If that's all, we need to get going."

Buzz smiles apologetically at my relatives. "Thank you for the offer, Dr. Cullen. I'll take it some other time, if it still stands." He shakes his hand, waiting for me to exit the door and go down the wheelchair ramp. "Good night, Dr. and Mrs. Cullen."

"Bring her back at midnight!" Emmett booms. My jaw unhinges again, because he doesn't finish the statement with, "Or you'll wish you'd never been born."

When we're out of the house, I tug down on his shirt with my fingers, kissing John James "Buzz" Hemlich soundly.

* * *

><p>We get to Lafferty's house at 10:15, but only reach the center of the action at 10:30. Buzz had asked Jason to keep a space open in his garage for us, which earns him his second kiss of the night.<p>

I press my lips against his gently, opening my mouth to let his teeth nibble on my lower lip. Giggling, I respond, drawing my tongue across his teeth. His hand shoots up to my head, and he grabs onto it, pushing us both backwards. He's spread across his seat, his hardened stomach over the gearshift.

Almost immediately, his hand shoots up to my breast. Suddenly brazen, I let him fondle it, guiding his hand and placing his fingers on my nipples. Hypersensitive to the touch, I squeal, arching my back involuntarily. Buzz groans, pulling away from the kiss, dipping his lips into the crook of my neck.

He peppers it with close-mouthed kisses.

It feels _nice_…

…until he starts to open his mouth, presumably to either suck on the skin or bite it.

"Gah, we need to stop!" I squeal. I tug on his hair roughly, like I used to tug on Emmett's when we played 'Pony.' Buzz yells out, rubbing his hand on the spot.

"Shit, baby, I'm sorry," I mumble.

He looks up at me, his baby blue eyes dejected. His ears turn a shade of pink so dark they look like Rosalie's lip gloss. "I'm sorry, baby, that was too much, wasn't it?" His eyes fill with remorse, like he's about to start thumping his chest to confess his many sins. "I'm such an idiot, baby, I –"

I put a finger on his swollen lips. "It's not that," I say softly. "Entirely, anyway. I just don't wanna hook up in a car in the middle of a garage."

"Oh," he says, relieved. "Alright, let me go get, eh, your…chair." In spite of how comfortable he's gotten with lifting me in and out of the wheelchair, he still stumbles over the term.

Buzz sits back up, pulling away from me, looking mortified and sheepish. He reaches out to open the door, but I grab him by the arm, sitting back up. I kiss him firmly but sweetly on the lips, cupping his cheek. "We can kiss some more later," I whisper into his ear, thrilled when he shivers.

Beaming, he drops a hesitant kiss on the tip of my nose. He jumps out of the car with reinvigorated enthusiasm, putting my chair together and pulling it around. Just to prove my point, I kiss him again as he lifts me out of the car, running my fingers through his hair. He smells minty, having sprayed himself with cologne. A couple of minutes ago, he stank of hamburger. To his credit, he smelled less gross than when he kisses me after football games.

Buzz pushes me up the steps dotting the Lafferty's backyard, then helps by pushing the hand-grips along the gravel. Now that we've talked about it at length, he's not _once _pushed me without my explicit consent. I'm so proud of him I could bawl. Immediately, somebody jumps up at him, tackling from behind. He laughs, shoving the person – Rickie Von Gardner. "Careful, you 'tard," he snaps, placing both of his hands around my shoulders a little gently.

Glancing down at me, he drops a kiss on my crown on my hair. "Baby, I'll be right back. Do you want anything before I leave?" He's jumping up and down on the balls of his feet, so eager he's practically salivating. His eagerness reminds me of a damn puppy, and I hate those fervently. I wrinkle my nose, but ultimately nod. Buzz just looks _so _happy.

I gaze up at him, attempting to conceal my horror. The truth is that without Simon Lowell, I'm grievously, utterly alone. Ever since that blowout with Cassidy and her minions of evil last Fall, I haven't had much real contact with anybody. I go to these things because they're Buzz's friends, but that is the extent of my involvement. The thought of trying to _mingle _with any of these people makes me want to puke up the chicken nuggets I ate earlier. Hell, eating the puke back up sounds more appetizing than _talking _to these people.

I try to wipe off the Puss in Boots look – and give him the brightest smile I can muster. I feel like the nuggets I ate earlier are playing see-saw inside my esophagus. "No," I say in a high-pitched voice. "You go have fun."

He doesn't think about it further. Grinning, Buzz tackles Rickie von Gardner, pinning him to the ground. I watch, wrinkling my nose, as they roll around like monkeys in heat on the damp grass. Grimacing, I quickly scan my surroundings. I determine the danger zones: the Cassidy-infested, albeit wooden-floored terrace; the gravel and muddy grass, and the damp area near the pool. Sighing, I decide my best bet is the patch of polished concrete leading to the cackling bonfire, which nobody is really paying attention to.

There's a nice little spot by a wooden log where I can text Ali on my iPhone instead of trying to make polite conversation. I can play CandyCrush in the event Ali is unavailable. Decided, I begin the cumbersome, treacherous trek, by way of the table with drinks.

It's like an obstacle course. There's a bunch of discarded beer cars everywhere, making it a rather bumpy ride. It's not like I can _bend _over and remove them, or kick them. There are also puddles of the gooey gold liquid everywhere, and there are puffs of all sorts of smoke – from cigars and weed – right above my head. I feel like a bumper car – left, right, spin right again, spin left. By the time I manage to maneuver from under a massive cloud of cigarette smoke, I'm wheezing.

I park under the table where the Lafferty kids have put away enough hard liquor to give someone cirrhosis. I hate sounding like a grandma, but _who _on earth was stupid enough to give 16-year-old kids that much? Did they spend the past year collecting it? In any case, there isn't any liquor left to drink, or soda to season it with – not at least at the front of the table, which is what I can reach. There's a bottle of Coke with what seems like a spoonful of the venomous, bubbly sweet liquid.

Resigned, I grab said bottle, pouring it generously on a red cup that looks like nobody's licked it. Carlisle has a difficult time keeping my respiratory system functional. I'm not going to wreck his efforts catching a bug from one of these baboons. I bang it on the end of the bottle until the last drop has fallen. For a minute, I stare at a bottle of Coke – that one half full – way at the other end of the table, and sigh.

Sighing, I loosen the Velcro strap on my knees to pull them open. I grab each knee, re-arranging each leg. I wish my chair had a cup-holder. I'm about to stick the cup in between them, when somebody wraps a hand around my wrist.

"Let me get that for you," he says.

I look up, coming face-to-face with a brunet boy, with tousled hair and a pair of big, blue eyes I recognize after a second of squinting. He smiles, flashing me a set of pearly teeth that make me go weak at the knees. Or at the chair wheels. What the fuck ever.

With long, lean hands, he grabs one of the Coca-Cola bottles I'd been staring at hungrily, pours it generously into my big-red cup, and finishes with a sprinkle of rum.

"Thanks," I say curtly, taking a sip. I ogle him strangely.

"My pleasure," he replies with a small grin. The guy is eyeing me intensely, blue eyes roaming up and down my face, as if staring too hard will make me reveal my deepest, darkest secrets. Awkwardly, I stick my big, red cup in the makeshift cup holder I've made out of my boney knees.

"You're Isabella Cullen," he says. It's a statement, not a question. I squint up at him suspiciously.

"And you are?" _A stalker? _I sound politely disinterested, even though all tones are moderately hard to achieve when your voice sounds like a harp.

"I'm Matthew Lowell," he says, holding out a hand. Nodding, I shake it. I realize why he seems so familiar; the shape of his face is slightly rounder than Simon's, but they both have high cheekbones, dimpled chins and deep-set eyes. "You know…Twinkle-Toes' half-brother?"

I groan, feeling a surge of defensiveness. "Why does everyone call him Twinkle-Toes?"

Matthew grins. "Is that rhetorical or do you really want to know?"

I glower at him, putting both my hands decidedly on my chair's wheels to spin away. "I thought you guys'd broken up," he called, trying to stop me, still grinning maliciously from ear-to-ear. "Why are you getting upset?"

"Breaking up isn't the term for it," I said through gritted teeth. I answered the question because I honestly wanted nothing _less _than to answer the first. I didn't know how.

Matt arched an eyebrow. "You and he are in very different pages, then," he cackled evilly.

"How would _you _know?" I demand irritably. Although Simon is _very _reticent about his father's legitimate children, and his father's first wife, I know Matthew Lowell was a quarterback before Nate Crawford. He's off playing at NYU.

"He pines over you. It's so obvious that little twit is in love with you."

"_Excuse me_?" I hiss, narrowing my big, doe-like eyes. Uncle Emmett says I look like a kitten when I get angry, and Matthew Lowell agrees.

"You can't be serious," Matthew says incredulously, his eyes wide with shock as he sputters a laugh. "You can't honestly tell me you don't know."

"There's nothing to _know_," I retort sharply, "because Simon _isn't_ in love with me. We _are…_were, best friends. That's all there ever was to it."

He looks at me, and the twinkle in his eye is almost mocking. "I mean, I'd get it if you wanted to let down the little cocksucker easy. There's no way you'd be into him with Hemlich drooling after you."

I don't even dignify that with a response. "_Why _do you talk about your brother like that?" I ask snappishly instead. My family might be comprised of a bunch of functional lunatics, but I didn't go around broadcasting it, and I had no respect for those that did.

Matthew's expression morphs completely. "He's not my fucking brother," he snaps coldly. "That little freak is the reason my parents broke up."

Like a lioness defending her cubs, I get immediately defensive. "_He _isn't at fault," I say, fighting the urge to call him a dumbass, too. "He was just a baby at the time, for crying out loud."

He looks at me icily. "You know, for someone that claims not to be in love with him, you certainly do act like it."

"Even if I were," I snarl back coldly, "It wouldn't be any of your business, would it?"

I huff irritably and turn my chair around, aiming to spin it in the direction of the aforementioned wooden log next to the fire. Matthew calls me a cunt under his breath, and then slips away. Clenching my fists in anger, I leave little dents on the spinners on my wheelchair as I roll away. I lock the brakes on it, and grab my phone out of my purse.

**How goes it?**

I put my phone on my legs, taking a sip of the Coke and setting it back in its place. My thumbs are so forceful I feel like I'm going to crack the screen.

**Now that we're hanging out with all these imbeciles, c'est l'infer. **

As if to prove me right, Nate Crawford is approaching. His eyes aren't red-rimmed anymore, and the expression on his face is somber. He looks dejected, his expression falling when he realizes that he no longer elicits everybody's stare. On the upside, Nathaniel no longer looks like a flood victim emerging from the debris. Instead, there's a twinkle of hope in his eyes.

Quietly, Nate sits down next to me. I leer up sideways, annoyed. Last time I sat anywhere near him, he walked away like I was a leper in Biblical Times – and that was _before _Cassidy declared me a _persona non grata. _But what the hell. In the spirit of the Bible, I turn the other cheek. Plus, I can't wheel away. This is the only spot I can wheel to and from without risking permanently joining the Lafferty's garden gnomes. I can't wheel my chair over the muddy grass.

"I did what you advised me to do," Nate finally says, his voice soft.

I wreck my brain but come up short. "You've pulled your head out of your ass?" I blurt out, and then immediately slap my hand over my mouth. The hollows under my cheeks turn dark, dark red.

He laughs. "I guess that's what you really meant," he says lightly. "But I was talking about the other thing."

I have no patience for the Crawfords right now. "The other thing being…"

"_Give Yale, or Princeton, or whatever the hell it is a better reason to take you than the fact that you're a legacy kid and are paying full tuition,_" Nate quotes, his voice soft and happy, his eyes bright and intense. I can almost see the streaks of silver emerging from his pupils.

"Good for you!" I say cheerfully, suddenly uplifted. I restrain the urge to slap him on the back. "What did you do?"

He smiles softly at me, and my stomach flutters stupidly. I feel guilty; I have a pseudo-boyfriend. "I've been trying out lots of different things," Nate says gently. "I've been going to swimming practice – or I guess I will, once I'm off this thing. I also tried Model UN, and Lincoln-Douglas Debate…"

"I never did Lincoln-Douglas, but I always wanted to," I say wistfully, spinning my chair towards him.

"Why not?" he asks. "It seems like something you'd enjoy, what with how much you enjoy telling people off." There's a twinkle of amusement in his eyes; he smiles.

He's teasing me, I realize, and I grin back. "I was home-schooled." And practicing debate with any member of the Brady Bunch wasn't much fun, because the Munsters let me win even if I didn't deserve it.

"Oh," he says. "My mother thought about homeschooling me, too."

I snort. "Yeah, your mother's quite ridiculous," I blurt out. I wish it was the alcohol talking, but it's not even that. I'm just a hazard, with or without narcotics. "Ah...I..I didn't mean that," I add, wincing. "I mean, I...we talk, in the changing rooms in the country club, sometimes, and she...ah..."

Nate chuckles darkly. "Yeah, she is. She wanted to homeschool me because I had asthma."

Unlike I told Alice, the evening doesn't end up feeling like hell, in the end - because I end up making fun of Julia Crawford with her own son.

Nate make me laughs so hard that, for the first time in months, I cry happy tears.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Hang on to your hats. We're approaching the end of what I call Part I, hence the Chapter Title.


	11. Prelude of Calm (Before the Storm)

**Growing impatient? **Reviewers get **an outtake/preview of things to come - Nessie's accident from Jacob's perspective. **

In my defense: I've written the skeleton of the three remaining chapters, until Ness and Jake meet again. Again, remember, there needs to be a good reason for them to see each other again.

* * *

><p><strong>The Prelude of Calm: Before the Storm<strong>

Three days after Carlisle ran a DEXA scan to check for osteoporosis, I was diagnosed with the condition. Since then, they've been looking for ways to re-strengthen the bones. The implication is that I can't live for _all_ eternity at risk of fracturing bones, because at the rate things are going, it's very likely I'll fracture something every year. When the thought crossed my mind, Daddy turned to look at me with such fury a lesser girl would have wet her pants. Luckily, I'd just used my catheter. "If had a higher regard for your safety, then you wouldn't fracture bones at all," he'd snapped.

For two weeks now, every three days, I'm driven to the Champlain Hospital Rehabilitation Center, at Carlisle's hospital. The afternoon of the 10th of March, Rose drops me off at the Champlain Rehabilitation Center; a little grudgingly, she pulls out the foldable body of the chair and reattaches the wheels. She drops me off inside the building, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. "I'll be in class, alright, love? If I don't make it back in time, Uncle Emm'll pick you up."

I nod, giving her a peevish little smile. "You go do that, Professor Frink."

Grinning, she flicks me gently on the nose and then drops a kiss on it, scurrying away.

"Rose?" I call out softly. Her heels stop clicking and she turns, her brow furrowed. "I love you. Thank you for doing this."

Ever since it became clear my spine wouldn't magically heal, Rosalie has been taking classes 'round the clock. Technically, she has a medical degree – unpracticed – in orthopedics, coupled with a DTP she earned in Boston College a year before we moved to upstate New York. Ever since the whole osteoporosis fiasco erupted, she's enrolled at the Alberta School of Physical Therapy, where she's auditing a crash-course in Low-Intensity Vibration Therapy so she can eventually administer it herself.

Her eyes soften, filling with so much love I feel unworthy of it. "I love you, too, sweetheart," she murmurs. "So, so much, Nessie."

Beaming, she turns on her heel, the stilettoes clicking as she walks away. I roll away, towards the automatic doors that lead to the Champlain Hospital Rehabilitation Center. I'm not the biggest fan of the center's architecture, if only because there's state-of-the-art equipment but no divisor walls between each machine. Everything a patient does is exposed to the fellow patients, and I've bumped into enough busybodies to mind. The county we live in is filled with many little old ladies with nothing better to do than to ogle other patients' routine. As it is, I "the poor, wheelchair-bound" Cullen girl am a subject of enough gossip. Plus, the treatments make me look like badly made Halloween-costumes.

The first treatment is called Low-Intensity Vibration. To start, I climb onto a standing frame, so to speak. As the name implies, the frame keeps me upright, with padded hip support, padded ankle support, a knee pad and a chest pad. Transferring onto it is somewhat tricky; one sticks one's leg into the frame, transfer's one's butt, and finishes sticking the other leg in. With both legs spread apart, it's harder to get leverage. It takes me several tries to push myself off the wheelchair and swing out of it. It's not so bad, having only a tiny problem. When I'm on the thing I look like the Terminator. Worse, I look like a particularly shitty Transformer – the one made with spare pipes once they ran out of titanium.

Once I'm safely strapped onto my piping Transformer suit, I'm put on a platform, which does exactly that. It vibrates at high frequency. Apparently, vibrating à la low-intensity earthquake is supposed to preserve bone mineral density, or even increase it. Carlisle would know, even though I'm personally apprehensive about a therapeutic system based on rattling the patient like a maraca. Since I was born and injured sixteen years ago, Carlisle's devoted his every waking moment to neurology, and wherever possible, an emphasis in in the spinal cord. He's a member of the Board of Directions of the American Spinal Injury Association, and of the International Spinal Cord Society. He's a member of the Editorial Board for the Journal of Spinal Cord Medicine and for the Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation Journal. In a couple of years, Alice has predicted, Carlisle will be offered tenure in Columbia. Given all his accolades, who am I to complain?

The second therapeutic technique is called Body-Weight Supported Treadmill Training, makes me feel like a gargantuan baby. It's a feeling I'm all-too familiar with, since I wear adult diapers at night because "leakages" are a problem. I have a spastic bladder, which means it behaves like a squeeze toy. Unfortunately, the same is true for my bowels. After all, pooping is a reflex-based activity, and like a cherubic infant, I have no control over it. BWSTT is, fortunately for me, less embarrassing. In BWSTT, I'm strapped onto a harness that hangs from ceiling; a therapist holds one leg and another therapist holds the other, and they move my legs about.

Between the two, LIV is less embarrassing. Or so I'd thought.

"I wanted to try something different today," my therapist says today, wagging his eyebrows like the mayor of Halloweentown. "I've seen you on the parallel bars and I've realized you're able to support your own body weight fairly well using your arms, so I wanted to put you on splints today."

"Splints?" I echo with a squawk, like a deaf little old lady requesting clarification. I blanch, turning the color of a sheet. It's not an attractive color on me. I've used splints before; they're akin to braces in that they hold the limb in a specific position.

"I think LIV will be more effective if you actually do put some weight on your legs. You're a strong kid," he encourages me in a matter-of-fact tone, "And I'll be holding onto you for support."

In any other context, the thought of Robert Hudson's hands on my waist would make me swoon. Right now, with my luck, I'll either puke on him as he puts on the splints, or worse, fart. I rarely fart, because I used to have a primarily liquid diet, but when I do, I sound like a trombone on a speakerphone. I can't control flatulence any more than I can control anything _else_ that comes out of my rear end.

More than embarrassing myself, though, I hate acting like a wuss. I used to throw tantrums when I was very little – it felt idiotic and threatening to let _anybody _do things to my legs when I couldn't determine if it was good or bad. Decidedly, I nod and give him a smile that resembles a grimace.

"Alright then," I mumble, a touch apprehensively, involuntarily leaning back in my chair and sticking my chin in. Robert smiles knowingly.

Towering over Daddy by nearly a foot, Robert Hudson has skin the color of chocolate and eyes the color of teal. There's a mass of soft, crop-cut black hair atop his perfectly square jaw, and stubble lining his cheeks. I could see his perfectly delineated muscles underneath his white shirt, and it had nothing to do with my Vampy sight. His abdominals looked like a chocolate bar the size of a torso.

With somebody else's assistance, Robert prepares me for the exercise. He puts a harness-like belt around my skinny little torso, which he straps around himself. Someone else puts the splints on my legs, which start from the base of my heel and go up to the rift between my boney rear-end and my thighs. In spite of the harness, I feel my heart start to pound in my ears. I whimper; I can't feel his hands on my waist, or the equipment Robert tells me he's using to prop up my legs.

"You OK, kid?" he asks calmly.

Because my mouth feels as dry as the Gobi desert, I ascent with my head.

I'm _not _okay.

My arms start to tremble, exerting force at lifting dead weight. It's not that the weight is too much. The many years of propelling myself in a manual wheelchair have made me strong. I tell myself that, to little avail.

Because I feel like I'm going to _fall_.

I've never felt my wheelchair either, but I've taught myself to trust it. _I'm going to fall_. I imagine my body flapping backwards; I imagine my head hitting the hard, carpeted floor, followed by my every bone, joint and patch of skin, like a pillar crumbling.

"We need to stop," I yelp urgently, my arms rattling like maracas. My palms are clammy. Out of sheer nervousness, a drop of sweat breaks free, rolling down my cheek. I realize, only peripherally, that he's brought a high-top chair and replaced my chair with it.

The assistant therapist clings onto me as they lever me off into a stationary chair that has replaced my wheelchair. Breathing heavily, not out of exertion but out of sheer nervousness, I sit on it. My knuckles turn white as I grip onto the chair, relishing in the sense of _safety._

"I've never done this before," I wheeze. I fan myself with my palm; my neck and cheeks burn. Perhaps ironically, my knees are wobbling like Jell-O being poked, as adrenaline rushes up torrentially along my bloodstream. I can't feel the wobbling, but I find it bloody _terrifying. _

"You just need to get used to the sensation," Robert says gently. "I'll start the vibration in a second. I know you can do it, otherwise I wouldn't make you. We'll prop you up; I'll start the vibrations for 60 seconds. Try to put a little weight on your legs."

Wheezing, I manage to nod. The assistant therapist hands me a bottle of Evian, because the county's the kind of place where any other kind of bottled beverage is considered subpar. Still gripping onto the chair as if my life depended on it, I gulp it down faster than I've ever gulped down water, drowning half the bottle in a couple of blinks.

I smile warily at the assistant therapist, handing him the water bottle. Grabbing onto the rails around the vibration platform, I bend my elbows as I'm lifted off the high-top chair. Sweat starts to drip down my forehead, running down my cheek, as I first prop my weight on my arms. It takes tremendous focus; I have to find the borderline between bending or denting the frame around the vibration platform and leaving my weight unsupported.

Letting out tinny whimpers, I do what I avoid like the plague. I put weight on my legs. It's not a painful sensation - indeed, there's no sensation at all. With the splints' support, they don't crumble under the added strain. It's just an unnerving sensation; I keep on gawking at the boney things, expecting them to dissolve into dust or shatter into pieces. Neither thing happens.

We do over 15 two-minute intervals, whereby he gradually increases the weight on my legs. For the first time in years, I'm drenched in sweat; the nape of my neck is soaked, and strands of dark mahogany hair are stuck to my forehead. My cheeks are a dark red, and my eyes are sparkling and glassy.

Robert takes pity on me after 30 minutes. "Take a nice long bath tonight," Robert suggests, grinning from ear to ear. "Maybe ask your Mom to massage you with icy-hot, tonight."

I've collapsed onto my chair as if falling into a leather-bound Lazyboy lounger. My legs are still trembling, but I've never felt so relieved to be in my chair again. In spite of everything, I grin back, utterly pleased.

"Good job, girl," Robert congratulates me, placing his hand on my shoulder.

I nod happily, giving him a radiant smile. "Thanks, Sponge-Bobby," I tease him with a grin.

"Bye, Isabella-Nessie-Ness," he retorts playfully, spinning on his heel.

I roll my eyes.

My initial reaction to Robert was comical – in the way that puberty becomes comical once you forget the painful awkwardness. I had to fight the urge to hoot when I saw him the first time. "Hi," he'd said, flashing teeth so pearly and a smile so gorgeous he might do the miracle of making _my _toes curl. His voice is such a deep baritone and so velvet-like I want to cry every time I hear it. "I'm Robert Hudson." Like an imbecile, I held onto it a little too long, smiling like a brainless idiot. I stare deeply into his aqua colored eyes, my eyes glazing and crossing. I sigh like I'm a post-menopausal spinster that has never felt the touch of a man.

After a minute of politely smiling, he started to tug on it as if to wrench it from my demented grasp. "I'm Isabella," I'd finally stuttered, rambling like I want to turn into Bridget-fucking-Jones. "Well, Nessie. I go by my middle name, which is really weird, so we shortened it to Nessie. But you can call me Ness."

_And I don't have any irreparable cognitive damage, _I wanted to add once I saw the look on his face, one of amused curiosity and pity, _just paraplegia._

I've pulled it together, since – as much as I've ever had anything put together.

The second I spin my chair around, though, I realize that I haven't ever really pulled it together. I was so engrossed by the exercise that I didn't notice anything other than my arms trembling and my legs buckling imperceptibly.

"Renesmee."

I jump a foot in the air – or at least my shoulders do.

Blood starts pounding like a gong in my ears, as my eyes fall upon Simon Lowell's honey-colored eyes. He's sitting a couple of feet away from me.

I do what I've done my entire life. I avoid the bigger picture.

Instead of meeting his gaze, pleading and apologetic, I look at his therapist. A lady that reminds me of the Trunchbull from Roald Dahl's _Matilda _is sitting next to him, holding his hand in her beefy one. The lady would benefit from a nasal-hair plucking and a good waxing. I focus on the sound of his bones cracking as his PT manipulates them; the nausea the sound causes overwhelms me. It doesn't compare to the dread building in the pit of my stomach. I focus on the raised white cast wrapped from his ankle to the middle of his thigh.

Hell, I focus on the _delectable, _Roquefort-like smell wafting from said cast.

"Nessie," Simon murmurs, his voice saturated with emotion. He knows I'm looking-not-looking, because in spite of the fact that we've known each other six months, Simon knows all the details that matter. The emotions crackle like thunder across his face, contorting it; remorse, pain, longing. Each of them feels like a knife twisting inside my stomach. The reverent whispering is directed at me, and stupidly, I raise my gaze. My eyes meet his.

I swallow thickly. Speedily, I execute the maneuver that is going to angle my chair away from him. I zip quickly through the obstacles of a relatively cleared out rehab center. Finally, I attempt to dodge the raised plinth where Mrs. Ida Greenberg has electrodes glued to her lower back. Toad-eyed and curly-haired, Mrs. Greenberg is flipping through a Danielle Steel novel.

"You never gave me a chance to explain!" he yells.

Where they are spinning the wheels on my chair, my hands freeze. Slower than I ever have before, I turn my wheelchair around.

Simon's plea is so loud he might as well be yelling. Mrs. Greenberg drops her book with a thud, turning her head towards us. We are, after all, two sweaty teens with disabilities temporary and permanent, re-encountering one another by the bunions of her feet. If that isn't romantic, then what is? Time stands still, as every little old lady in that building, and every therapist, turns towards us.

Scarlet, be it because of embarrassment or shame, I slowly spin my wheelchair towards the first person that ever truly saw past it. Slowly, I wheel towards him, averting my eyes from everyone's, including Simon's. Mrs. Greenberg's gasp is caught in her own throat.

I approach him as much as the wheels on my chair will let me. His face lights up like firework-assaulted sky, his honey-colored eyes lit by hope so strong it silences him.

"No, I didn't," I murmur flatly. "Explain."

Where they hold my gaze, his eyes burn. "I'm in love with you," he says simply.

It shouldn't have been a shock, I'll realize several _weeks _later. But it hits me like all the bricks in the Empire State building, compressing my chest and blocking my windpipe. I can't feel my fingers. Because in spite of how _monumentally _obtuse I've been in the past couple of months, I realize he doesn't just love me the way I love him.

Whether I don't have the cruelty or the courage to admit that to him is an entirely different situation.

I start breathing heavily, utterly gob- smacked. I say nothing for an eternity, so he butts in, stammering desperately. "I was just so jealous. The thought of you being with anybody else…It drove me crazy, and I…"

I press my hand against his lips, gently in spite of my utter desperation to do so.

I meet his gaze, and then wish I hadn't. I can't process the sheer emotion in his eyes. It sends shivers up my broken spine. "Simon, now…Now isn't the…the time for this," I stutter throatily, pushing past the knot in my windpipe.

We hold each other's gaze for torturously long seconds, before I break the moment. His eyes flash with an emotion I can't pinpoint. "When will it ever be a good time for you?" he says, his voice rough. I don't know if it's rough out of desperation.

I shake my head vigorously, my big, doe-like eyes wide. "I just can't. Not right now," I plead, my voice breaking as tears start to pool in my eyes. "I'll see you later, OK?"

Unlike last time, I wait for him to nod.

Eventually, he does. Once he does, against my better judgment, I cup his cheek with my small hand, much like he cupped mine a couple of weeks earlier. He closes his eyes, this time not in agonized pleasure, but crushed by sadness. I drop my hand.

I wish I'd been ruder, because the _pain _in his eyes will haunt me for years to come.

* * *

><p>I don't really think about what Simon revealed, not really. Instead, I let it fester.<p>

I bury Simon's confession deep, letting it re-emerge only when I'm dreaming or when my train of thought leaps out of my hands.

I'm past crying myself to sleep, because even that hasn't helped me catch any-shut eye. Carlisle's a hair's width away from medicating me again, because I've started to look like Dracula's love child with a skeleton – when I'm not wearing enough layers of clothing to ward off an Atlantic expedition.

The bags around my eyes are dark to the point of looking like a deliberate attempt at looking gaunt. My skin, once alabaster tinted pink, has turned a sickly gray, and in spite of many a dietary supplement, I've now lost 20 pounds. I have grown slow and lethargic. I move like a hearse on my wheelchair, where I had formerly been lithe. Daddy's so concerned he's started to emulate my physical appearances, which has soured his mood to the point of making him a social hazard.

Seeing Simon at school again hasn't made it any easier. I don't know what to say to him, settling instead for an awkward version of stonewalling. We don't talk to each other. Instead, we'll catch each other's gazes, like in classes where we'd formerly be glued at the hip. I'll give him my gentlest smile, feeling each and every time like my eyes are burning with tears ready to be shed. Anything but what he does would help me move on - anger, hate, humor. Instead, Simon just _looks _back, like a little kicked puppy, his own smile sad and pleading. We keep a healthy distance in every other way; he won't even look at me when we pass each other in the hallways.

The yellow that lingered from bruises is gone, and so are the stitches around his jaw. Instead, there's a scar from the bridge of his nose that curls around the shell of his ear; there are a total of dents in his skin where there was once thread. He's wearing a boot that goes from the tip of his toes up to his knee, and a black hand-brace that wraps around his palm. He's been using crutches for weeks now.

That makes me cry, too.

Uncle Jazz sits with me some nights, calming me down and helping me clear my head. I assume that's the only thing that's kept me from a full-blown meltdown. Alice joins him occasionally, curling up atop the pillow next to me cross-legged while she strokes my hair. A couple of nights ago.

Tonight, once I'm really calm, Jasper leaves after pressing a kiss to my forehead.

For a long time, Ali and I just lay there, listening to the rain falling outside, hitting the windowpanes like small bullets. My breathing is shallow; hers, inaudible. Eventually, I turn towards her; she helped me move my hips, and then arranged my legs into a little ball. Curling against her like a little kitten, I started crying. Simon was really the only _friend _I've ever had. In the absence of friends, Alice and Rose filled a void. I not only missed him; I missed the confidante I had in him. In the absence of a confidante, then, Ali and Rose play those roles.

Rose, however, is a bad alternative. Rosalie would have told me, as she does rather vocally, that he "must be of the homosexual variety." In so doing, she would dismiss the turmoil that was keeping me awake nightly and morose daily.

Alice wouldn't dismiss my feelings like that.

"He told me he loved me," I whisper into my pillow, my voice breaking. "And I…"

What did I feel?

I miss Simon Lowell terribly. Because in spite of the fact that I'm now a _de-facto _member of self-identified "The A-Crew", as they call themselves snidely, I've never felt so horribly lonely. Buzz and I are officially "dating", even though I still stumble around the term "girlfriend." Buzz hasn't introduced me as such, or directly called me his "high school sweetheart" – perhaps because I really deserve the term "high school bitter-gallbladder." He has noticed – more observantly than anybody gives him credit for –that I turn a slight shade of sickly green every time we're asked about our situation.

Ali says nothing; instead, she curls inside the covers with me, nose-to-nose, and hugged me tightly. "Oh, honey," she said gently, her voice absent of its trademark enthusiasm. "It'll be alright in the end, baby."

"How do you know that?" I sniffed.

"You deserve a happy ending, Ness," Alice murmured.

I force myself to smile at her, but then realize – or immediately refuted –that not everybody gets one. If we did, they wouldn't be the subject of fairy-tales.

Look at my father; he was alone, miserable, and suffering. When he wasn't taking care of me, he made Scrooge look like Mother Theresa; he was foul to the point of monstrous. I didn't blame him. Sometimes, in spite of his best efforts, I noticed he couldn't even bear to look at me. With a heart-shaped face, a pert little nose with a dimpled-tip; big, doe-like eyes; and generally delicate features, I look exactly like my mother would have, if she were here. I'm the only thing holding him here, and even though he calls me a blessing - sometimes, I feel like a curse and a burden. He's forced to live with a daughter that not only looks like the woman he loved, but that requires round-the-clock care, and who he can't abandon for that very reason.

"Good night, Ali," I'd said, unable to say anything else.

* * *

><p>Buckets continued falling out of the sky for most of that week. Although I typically didn't like rain – puddles and mud are <em>fun <em>when you use a wheelchair –, lately, it made me feel nothing but relief. I enjoyed the protection my family provided, because, unfortunately for me, the broader school population had turned my love life into gossip fodder. Some have realized things between me and Simon Lowell are ice-cold, even when things between me and John James "Buzz" Hemlich are lukewarm. Some people don't care about either thing, and assume both of relationships are spicy hot, with both Buzz and Twinkle-Toes are benefiting from my "mouth services."

Notable amid those who spread that last one are Cassidy Anthony and her little band of Death Eaters. Ever since that little bathroom episode, both Maia Apkins and Ass-idy Anthony have gone out of their way to make comments about me. They've become increasingly nasty, fueled by the dirty, disgusted looks Daddy gives them all, especially Assidy Anthony. Assidy's eyes fill with fear, dread and mortification whenever she sees Edward Cullen, and she's taking out all of her anger on me. Maia, in turn, seems terrified I'll mention something about discrimination to the school board. In a brilliant move, she's been taking it out by building my case for such an accusation.

Luckily, my family is always with me.

As of right now, Ali walks next to me, one of her hands hooked around the handgrip on my wheelchair – holding it, not pushing it. We're off to Religious Ed, talking about nothing of consequence. Rather, Alice is chattering on and on about something I could care more about. She grows quieter and quieter as we approach the classroom. By the time I wheel into it, she's completely silent. Most of my classmates have already paraded in, experiencing a post-energy slump.

This is the one class where I don't technically have to come in before everyone else does. Sister Prudence cleared out a desk at the very front of the room, and there's enough space between desks for me to move the chair in without difficulty.

Waiting for Alice, I virtually park the chair next to the desk. In my funny equivalent of tapping my foot, I start wiggling my pinky expectantly. "Go on," I say impatiently, gesturing to the empty seat. She doesn't move.

"Ali," I say, like I'm luring a dog with a bone. "Yoo hoo…" I point one long finger to the empty chair next to the space cleared for my wheelchair.

Alice's smirk widens. "I think I'll be sitting somewhere else, Ness." With that, she twirls away, sitting instead on the furthest corner from me, right next to a window. She plops her boney bottom next to Gilbert O'Daley, one of the dorks from Simon's innermost friend group. His mouth falls open, and it seems like he can't breathe.

"Hello, I'm Alice Cullen," she trills. "I don't think we've been formally introduced."

Alice holds out her tiny hand. Gilbert stares at it as if he were Moses in Mount Sinai, looking at the face of God. I see Gilbert's hand twitch towards his inhaler.

Scoffing exasperatedly, I turn the chair around and park it inside the desk. Alice's eyes are twinkling and there's a smirk on her face. It grates on my nerves. I fold my hands atop my elbows and rest my chin there, ready to doze off. Class is going to be so bloody _dull – _and I wanted to discuss my outburst from yesterday. I was going to go for exhaustion-induced denial as an explanation.

Seconds before the bell rings, Nate Crawford stumbles in. Since Nate deliberately gave me the _honor of his presence, _being wet-puppy eager to tell me of the alternatives he found to football, I've become his guidance counselor – his snarky, irritable, no-jokes counselor. I told Nate a couple of days ago that if he wanted somebody to indulge his pity parties about how little he enjoyed being Student Body treasurer, he could go to Mrs. Todd, the real guidance counselor. At that, Nate actually gave me a genuinely amused smile and we ended up laughing.

Awkwardly – be it because we've only spoken three times or because he can't quite bend his leg – Crawford ends up clumsily arranging himself next to me. The movement doesn't have the desired spontaneity, but I can empathize with that. The struggle is real.

"Hey, Cullen," Crawford says, in a voice that attempts nonchalance but only displays trepidation.

"Hey," I say more bemusedly than kindly, scrunching up my nose in confusion.

"You look cute when you do that," he blurts, mimicking my nose gesture. Immediately, he and I both turn as scarlet as the ribbon wrapped around my head.

Much to my chagrin, I scrunch it further, which makes him laugh. "Thanks, I guess," I say, suppressing my urge to add, "_for letting me know I'd make a cute rabbit._" For a minute, we sit there awkwardly, until he clears his throat.

"I, eh…wanted to let you know that I have a new College application plan."

"You know, the counseling office is over there," I say playfully, angling my dimpled little chin towards said building.

He grins at my jab, and then ignores it.

"Well, you know how you said you'd always wanted to…eh, do LD?"

"LD as in Lincoln-Douglas debate?" I clarify, wondering if he botched the acronym for the LSD drug.

His blush turns even darker as he nods. "Well, yeah. I eh…I need a partner for it, and…Ah, you…You're not stupid, you know?"

"Geez, thanks, Crawford," I say with a chuckle.

Now tomato red from the tip of his hairline, all the way down to his jaw, Crawford fans himself as if it were 3,000 degrees outside, not a couple of degrees above freezing. "I mean, you're the smartest girl in this hell-hole," he finally stutters, "And you're not afraid to say things because you don't care what other people'll think, so yeah…You'd make a good debater."

Crawford finishes his impassioned debate giving me a strange, bashful look; his chin is tilted towards me in a defiant jut, but his baby blue eyes are lowered as if he could not possibly bear the thought of meeting mine.

I tilt my chin to the side. "And what exactly would this entail?" I ask.

His lips curl upwards into a grin. Nate Crawford narrates how I would have to stay 2 extra hours every Tuesday at a debate club meeting. I figure he's deliberately avoiding the subject of tournaments. He's about to delve into a lengthy explanation of the benefits of PF – Public Forum Debate, as opposed to my preferred singles situation. "And I think that if we team up, it'd be easier for the both of us to…"

I'm suddenly assailed by the heavy scent of a heavily floral body lotion and cat urine.

"Hey, Sister Pru," I try sweetly, batting my eyelashes at the old bat. I turn my head towards her to give her a toothy grin.

She glowers at me, turning up her wrinkled nose as though she's looking at a pitifully squashed insect under her orthopedic shoes. Besides me, Nate sits up straight, like a sentinel. His hand shoots out to cup my shoulder, scooting so close to me his knee hits the chair wheels.

"Are you two done talking?" she demands in her voice like a creaking door. Her prune-like wrinkles make her look like a hound, and they are contorted with malice. Roughly, she snatches the questionnaire out from underneath my hand. Immediately, Nate envelops my hand in his, as if to protect it from Sister Prudence's arthritic claw.

"We needed to discuss the material, because the explanation wasn't sufficient," I say. Once the words have left my mouth, I realize how cheeky they were. _Always_ once the words have left my mouth. I sigh dejectedly.

Sister Prudence gasps as though I've spit at her. "Miss Cullen!"

"It wasn't her fault, Sister," Nate tries apologetically, giving her a crooked grin. "It was mine. I distracted her the entire class period."

Pru's expression – like that of a bloodthirsty hound – turns suspicious.

"That's very kind of you, dear," Prudence says in a saccharine voice that makes me nauseous. "However, it does not excuse Miss Cullen's cheek."

She gives me the evil eye. In response, I give her a crooked grin.

"That's very subjective, isn't it, Sister?" Nate continues in a murmur, hazel eyes trained on her as if to hypnotize her. "I respectfully disagree."

Sister Prudence scoffs, but somehow, Nate manages to pry the paper out of her arthritic claw. "Ness – I mean, Isabella will finish it for next class," he finishes, with a hypnotizing velvety air. "I promise." He gives her a flirtatious wink. Under her hound-like wrinkles, Sister Prudence turns pink.

Jesus.

"You should thank Mr. Crawford," Prudence sneers at me. "You deserved detention."

"Yes, Sister," I say sweetly, peeking at her from underneath dark eyelashes. "I apologize." Once she has waddled away, I turn to Nate, grinning from ear to ear.

He's _so_ close.

If I shifted closer our noses would touch. His hand is still enveloping mine. I can smell his scent, fresh like peppermint, woodsy, rustic.

"Thanks," I say, peeking up at him from underneath thick black eyelashes.

"Don't mention it," he tells me softly. His hand is still cupping mine. Before pulling away, he strokes my knuckles with his thumb. The gesture seems casual, but it _burns. _

"Yeah," I say playfully, snatching my hand out from underneath him. "Don't think that's ever going to make up for all the counseling."

I stick out the tip of my tongue.

"I would never think that." Nate's tone is so serious, his hazel eyes so expressive, so wide and sincere. Inside my chest, butterflies flare up my stomach.

"I'm glad you appreciate me," I say playfully, giving him a wink. My bouncy tone doesn't quite negate the delicate blush creeping up under my cheekbones.

"I do."

Nate whispers it, so low I'm not meant to hear it. But I do.

* * *

><p>By the end of April, the rain stopped. With the improvement in weather, my trepidation began. I climbed into the chair, slowly and lethargically, and headed off to school. In spite of how emotionless I looked on the outside, inside, I was utterly terrified. The sun was out, and I wouldn't have anybody protecting me from other types of glares. Both Rose and Daddy, jointly and singly, suggested I didn't go.<p>

I did anyway. Daddy's been growing antsy, suggesting I leave New York altogether. I've been hesitant to agree; he's been throwing all sorts of suggestions, some involving Rose and I pretending to leave to a Swiss "all-girls" boarding school, and instead do whatever I want, with Rose by my side. I'm hesitant to agree, on the one hand, because I've already deprived Emmett from his wife for sixteen years. I wouldn't want to deprive him of Rose for weeks on end. On the other hand, it would be selfish to leave so many things unresolved, and because I'd be running.

From what, I don't quite now just yet.

Technically, for one, I am dating John James "Buzz" Hemlich – even if the relationship is stuck in limbo, doomed there for all eternity. As much as I dislike it sometimes, I can't just leave. Dating Buzz has forced me into a range of social events. These events (a) make me feel like a tiny little fly facing off against a bunch of spiders, and (b) are therefore nauseatingly painful. I'm fulfilling one of such social engagements right now: watching my boyfriend play ball, while feeling much like Sandy Dee in Grease. Some days, when it's cloudy, I ask Alice to come along with me – but on sunny days like this one, that isn't a possibility. I take books instead, which doesn't make me feel any less vulnerable, but gives me something to _do._

Cass-Cass and her minions of evil are off gossiping in the bleachers, I'm usually in the bottom rung, propping myself up on both arms, listening to nasty little comments. I can hear them as clearly as I can see through crystal. Wrapped around Buzz's jacket, I swiveled out of my chair after parking it right near the steps. It's rude to leave it blocking the steps, but there was nothing I could do to move it – without moving myself and falling flat on my face. I dragged myself up a couple of rungs. Since I can't push down on my legs or butt, I just push down on my arms, gradually lifting myself up each rung.

"Look at Tiny Tim," Maia Apkins cackles with a squeal. "She looks like a fucking earthworm, dragging herself along."

"_You can't say shit like that_!" Kyla hisses. "She's _crippled_, for fuck's sake. You can't make fun of the handicapped. It's politically incorrect."

I snort. Technically, Kyla dear, both of your terms are both outdated and short-sighted.

Panting, I go up another four rungs, and stop. I position myself along the edge of the rung, making sure my back is pressed against it. Sighing sadly, I open the book on my lap, and arrange my legs neatly.

Cassidy scoffs. "She's such a sleazy freak, pretending to be _ink_tellectual," she says nastily. "Who the fuck _reads _while watching a fucking football match?"

Maia laughs coldly. "She can't do any fucking other thing, can she?"

With that, their tangent of Tiny-Tim bashing ends, but I've already resigned myself to the fact that more are en _route_. Ever since that little bathroom episode, both Maia Apkins and Ass-idy Anthony have gone out of their way to make comments about me. They've become increasingly nasty, fueled by the dirty, disgusted looks Daddy gives them all, especially Assidy Anthony. Assidy's eyes fill with fear, dread and mortification whenever she sees Edward Cullen, and she's taking out all of her anger on me. Maia, in turn, seems terrified I'll mention something about discrimination to the school board. In a brilliant move, she's been taking it out by building my case for such an accusation.

As Cassidy has noted, my book does make me feel like a worm, a worm being preyed on by a bunch of bloodthirsty vultures. I keep on flipping its pages, paying little to no attention to the plotline, protecting my face from the wind by wrapping my scarf tighter around me. The wind still whips around, making me wish I had worn a braid. My hair flutters around me like I'm a Witch about to fly out with a whirlwind.

Buzz notices me within five minutes of walking into the field. He beams at me, waving his hand before catching a football, and throwing it back with a perfect spiral.

I smile back, waving back and puckering my lips up for a kiss. "Agh, what a fucking corny bitch," Fryer comments. "There's no need to brag about how nice her blowjobs are."

That one actually makes me snort. I want to keep things in this nice little limbo, where he and I kiss on the lips and go out every Friday. Buzz has been a perfect gentleman. The one that is really growing impatient is Rosalie. I don't know exactly what she wants, because it's not like Rose is the kind of person that would be happy if John James Hemlich progressed relationship wise, à la jackrabbit.

With that, I return to my book, only paying attention when one of the minions of evil stops taking to pay attention to a play. At a certain point, when the wind starts to howl – literally -so I pull up my legs to my chest. I grab them each by the ankle, lifting them up and keeping them in place by loosening the Velcro strap and wrapping it around my thighs.

A little while later, practice ended. Unlike Alejandro Martinez, who barreled up the stairs to suck Lara Fryer's lips like a vacuum, Buzz vanished into the locker room. Buzz left me with a sickening desire to yell at my 'boyfriend' for being so blithely incompetent. What happened to his misplaced chivalry, where he'd push me down a hallway? I'm not technically stranded, but I could use the help. Indeed, on days like today where I have no help, I'm usually left in the bleachers and in front of the empty football field for _a half hour _before I manage to get back into my chair.

I don't know why I come; it doesn't help with the loneliness as much as I think it will.

I wait for Cass-Cass and her cronies to leave the bleachers before heading down. Eventually, they do. One of them, Maia Apkins, lingers behind. I decide to pay her no mind.

"Ugh," I grumble, untying my knees with one hand and gripping the bleacher rung with the other. The weight shift could make me lose my balance. Immediately, my gummy legs wobble outwards, spreading wide open without the Velcro-strap.

Maia whistles. "Horny, aren't we, Cullen?"

I turn my head towards her, glaring. "I can't control it, Apkins," I yell back.

Feeling like I ought to be trembling, but with a solid grasp and with precision, I wrap the Velcro strap around my knees. I leave my legs straight, lifting my body up with my arms, and dragging it downwards. Unable to control it, I land with a thud. I repeat the process several times. I hear the loud metallic clang of Maia following, jumping rung after rung.

By the fifth rung, Maia has caught up to me. Feeling like Jack crawling down the Beanstalk, I watch as the Giant follows. If I could stand, I'd tower over Apkins by two feet. She looks a bit like a midget, to be honest. Since I can't, as of this moment, I'm two and a half feet shorter. She stops, towering over me. I don't look up, rigidly looking forward, but I can virtually feel her gaze. It makes my skin crawl.

"HEY, ISABELLA!" she screams loudly, as if I were across the field and not just a couple of feet below. _What the hell?! _

With my heart pounding in my throat, I ignore her. Instead, I scoot to the edge of the rung. Unfortunately, as I move, I let out tiny grunts of effort.

"HELLO, ISABELLA!" she yells again, straight into my ear. I wince, roughly and accidentally lifting my shoulder. It slams against Maia's chin; he hisses out air, like a cobra ready to strike.

Ignoring her again, I lift myself up, hoping to plop down the rung. Once my butt has landed, I lower my arms, ready to scoot forward again. "Answer me, stupid bitch," she says sharply, infuriated. I say nothing, instead starting to scoot forward.

Maia raises her foot high in the air, and brings it hard against the back of my hand. I yelp, more out of shock than pain, screaming out in rage.

"I'm so sorry," Maia coos in a saccharine voice, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "I just thought that'd be another body part you couldn't feel."

A knot around my throat, I look up. Of their own accord, my lips have curled down and I'm sure I look like the freaking Puss-in-Boots character. "Leave me alone, Apkins," I say firmly, through gritted teeth.

Her lips contort into an ugly sneer.

"BUT YOU WON'T SAY HI!" she bellows, cackling insanely. "YOU WON'T SAY HI."

A second passes as I decide that I'd rather be pushed off the bleachers than comply with her demands. Instead, I repeat the process. Making panty-squeaky noises, I scoot forward – first, I swing my arms forward, and then I lever my body into the next rung. Upon landing, gripping onto the rung, I scoot my body forward. Once my bottom is lined up with the edge of the rung, I unfold my legs.

"I ASKED YOU TO SAY HELLO, CULLEN," she repeats with a thunderous yell.

While I'm doing that, I feel a bony knee press with tremendous force against my shoulder-blade, sending me tumbling forward. Apkins scoots forward, lowering her head so that her mouth is in my ear. "Why won't you show me some respect, huh, Cullen?" she murmurs nastily, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Finally, my patience snaps, and I turn around. I keep my face blank, even though my eyes burn with iciness. "Because you're cruel, sadistic and despicable," I spit, literally letting out a bullet of saliva along with my words. It lands on her breast-pocket. Maia Apkins ogles it with disgust, wiping it off her breast-pocket with slowly brewing disgust.

I'm not looking at her when she pronounces what remains of her speech. "You're going to regret this," she hisses. "Even back in the day, when we tried to be nice to you and treat you like you're not a fucking _freak,_ you always acted like you were fucking better than everyone else. I'm going to teach you better, you fucking crip."

Apkins jumps with flair into the rich, brown soil under the bleachers. Rubbing her foot on the soil, she raises it. Flinging her leg back, she kicks the back of my chair. As kicks go, Apkins' is flimsy; but she covers the backrest with dirt. My chair rolls away from the flat soil and into the mud, stopped by the caster wheels. I flinch. "Stop it!" I yell, "Stop it, damn it!"

Maddened with rage, Apkins tips my chair over. It lands with a splash atop a large puddle of built where grass meets soil, and where soil turns to mud. I can't help it – I let out a cry. Tears are pooling atop my eyelashes, threatening to break past the netting. Laughing manically, Maia Apkins turns on her heel. She shapes her fist into the middle finger, and kisses it before raising it up in my direction.

Approaching the very edge of the bleachers, Maia freezes.

My jaw falls open as I hear the sickening crunch of flesh slamming against flesh. With a screech, Maia tumbles backwards, landing on her butt. I watch, slack-jawed, as Simon springs forward. She lands on the gravel, scratching the length of her back; I smell the blood as soon as it drips out of the punctuated skin. I feel nauseous all of a sudden.

I let out a scream, clapping my hand against my mouth; I wish I could rush out to help her.

"If you hurt her again, Apkins, I'll fuck you up," he snarls. The scar on his face protrudes, the permanent contortion of his jaw makes him utterly terrifying. Simon's face is a mask of rage.

I've started hyperventilating, watching as Maia's parrot-like features turn dark red and then an angry purple. She can't breathe; she's sucking in air, unable to get it back out. He's watching Maia writhing on the ground, bleeding; his lips are curled up into a triumphant smile.

"Simon, help her!" I urge desperately. "Simon, please!"

His face contorts into confusion; he stares at me, his brow furrowed. "Simon, help her. Please," I beg in a softer voice. "For _me._"

His face contorts first into quiet resignation. Sighing, he _walks _forward, if shakily. He holds out a hand; it's the stich-free one. His other hand is now in working order, but he clenches it by his side. Maia stares at it glassily, her parrot-like, dark eyes wide. On her scuffed-up elbows, she scurries backwards.

"I _– don't _– need – your help!" she chokes out, crawling onto her knees. Covered in gray soot from the gravel, she stands up. It takes her a while. Once she's up, she spits at Simon's foot – he's still wearing a black, sturdy boot. With a final, fearful glare in my direction, Maia Apkins scurries away.

Limping, she scurries away, whimpering.

For a second, Simon and I are both silent. The wind picks up speed; it whips my hair, making it slam against my forehead. I wrap my arms around my chest, saying nothing. Sighing, Simon heads towards my chair. Grunting as he bends down, he picks it up. The armrests and the upholstery are drenched in mud. My pressurized seat detached; it, too, is crusted in mud and matted in grass. He lifts it, his expression pained and apologetic. Expertly, he arranges the seat on the wheelchair.

As if giving me a peace offering, he wheels it quietly towards me. My big, doe-like eyes brimming with tears; I smile at him gently, patting the seat next to me. Stoically, he plops down next to me.

"Thank you for helping me," I say quietly, tightening my arm's grips on my shoulders. I consider patting his thigh, once again engaging in the casual touches we shared once upon a time. I consider it. My fingers flit towards him, before I clench them back up.

"You're welcome," he says, his gaze fixated on my fingers.

As if commenting on the scene, the wind howls. A drop of rain falls, dripping square down my jaw.

"I really don't want you to think I didn't appreciate it," I murmur gently, sweetly. "I really did. But you need to learn to control your temper, Si. You just hit a girl, for God's sake."

The raindrops accelerate their tempo; quarter beats ring out as they fall against the bleachers, and against us.

"I know," he finally says silently. "I…You…You bring it out in me, Ness."

I don't know what to say to that. Hundreds of responses fly through my head; none end up sufficing, and instead, I settle for saying nothing at all. The wind continues to whip around us; the rain intensifies, barreling down like pellets once more.

"God, it's just that I…" Finally, he meets my gaze. The raindrops moistening his cheeks and eyes resemble tears and sweat. He's eyes are crushed by an agony I can't begin to understand. "I love you so much."

Hours earlier, days earlier, I wouldn't have known how to reply to that. I brave touching him; I cup his cheek. "I love you, too, Simon," I say tenderly. "Just not like that. I'm sorry, honey. I'm sure that one day somebody _will _and she'll…"

Very gently, he presses four fingers against my hand. "Don't, Ness. Just don't, please," he says stoically, his voice breaking gruffly. "You don't have to apologize; it is what it is. I just want to be your friend."

Tears start flowing freely down my cheeks, intermingling with the raindrops. Slowly, as if approaching a rabid animal, I wrap my arms around him. I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in deeply. He rubs his hand against my back, murmuring consoling things against the crown of my hair.

"We should get you out of the rain," he finally says. "Come on."


	12. Sound of Thunder

**Chapter 12: The Sound of Thunder**

"Thank you, Si," I say gently, turning my head to smile at him. He's bent over, hands against his knees; the boot-covered one is trembling, coated in now drying mud. In all honesty, I'm utterly terrified for him.

As Simon and I walked along the dirt road to the school entrance, it turned into thick mud. The rain has made a white curtain of pellets. Underneath it, everything is drenched. The mud started to get lodged into the bristles on my chair's wheels, and gradually, my wheelchair sunk into it. Simon offered to push me, but I knew it would take a toll on his recently healed shin. I agreed, being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Necessity doesn't assuage my guilt, though. I keep on frowning in Simon's direction. He's wheezing as if his throat were burning.

"You don't have to worry anymore – I'm sure Buzz is out there looking for me."

He looks at me like I've turned into the Grim Reaper, the bearer of gruesome news in that very moment. He rises to his full height, a darkness spreading across his eyes and into the lines in his mouth. Simon's reddened face changes instantly; his honey-colored eyes flash. "I can take you," he says flatly. "I have a new car now." With his statement, his eyes twinkle with a pleasure that sends chills up my spine. I get nervous; I start chugging down on my lip, tucking soaked hair behind the shell of my ear, wringing my hands in my lap.

It makes him even angrier.

"You don't have to do that," he says irritably. "Things between us can go back to normal – you don't have to act like a fucking hostage victim just because I've offered to take you. It's not like I'm going to rape you, for shit's sake."

The lilt in his words sends my heart pounding. Instinctively, I shudder, leaning back in my chair. Something about the glint in his eyes tells me it's best not to argue this one out. "I don't want to put my dirty chair in the trunk, Si," I insist. Buzz's trunk, at this rate, is a different story. "I can just wait for –" I insist.

"Don't be silly," he retorts; that dangerous anger I've come to recognize flashes in his eyes again. My stomach stirs, fear brewing, and I swallow it along with a tinny gulp.

"Alright," I say solemnly. I start to wheel my chair towards the wheelchair ramp. Trying to maneuver it around the mud coating my chair's caster wheels is painstaking; I start wrinkling my nose.

"I'll bring the car here," he half-states, half-demands, raising his hand to stop me. On my chair wheels, my hands freeze.

I comply with a serious nod. I look up, gazing at him through dark, water-coated lashes. He raises his chin defiantly, challenging me to resist the statement.

"Thanks."

Simon makes a strange face; he grimaces before walking away, disappearing under the white curtain the rain has made. In spite of being outside it, water drips down my hair, soaking the cashmere sweater on my back. Coated in water, my thick black stockings cling tightly to my legs, like spandex, not wool.

I want to avoid the intimate awkwardness of being lifted in and out of my wheelchair. Besides, he probably shouldn't be doing any heavy lifting, even if I'm currently as fat-free as Splenda. Sighing, I decide it's best to go under the rain, and go down the wheelchair ramp. Outside the car-pot, water is pouring torrentially, cascading down windows and flooding the crevices next to the pavements. I wait, grimacing as the water turns my hair black and flattens the ringlets that form at its base.

Then I realize I really do have golden luck.

Through the curtain of rain, emerging like an anxious mother, Buzz shows up. When he sees me, he lets out a sigh of relief so deep his chest rumbles. He runs towards me in several powerful strides, squatting down and crushing my body to his.

As damp as a swamp, he wraps me up in his arms, his wet blonde hair slapping against mine. "Ness, baby, I was so scared," he mumbles in a quivering voice. "God, baby, don't do that again, honey." He peppers wet kisses against my cheek and forehead.

As I try to wriggle out Buzz's soaked embrace, a car approaches. Simon's new BMW is close; he parks next to us, splashing us with water his car raises into the air. Scowling, Simon lowers the window.

"What the _fuck _are you doing, Hemlich?" he demands. "And you…Ness, I asked you to wait, for shit's sake."

Initially, my mouth falls open. Why is Simon talking to me like that? I pull it together quickly, however, and dismantle my scowl.

"She's my girlfriend, twink," Buzz snaps at Simon, suddenly letting me lose. I suck in air like a victim being released from entrapment. Buzz usually wouldn't call me that – he knows the mention of it turns my pallor green, as is the case right now. I fear my lunch is going to squirt out into Buzz' 1,000 dollar Nikes.

Yet, much like Simon, Buzz's eyes are burning with rage and possessiveness only matches by Simon. Said green-eyed possession is about to puke. I slap my hands against my face, and then run them down my soaked face like I want to pull my skin off. "Son of a - ."

Both of them seem completely obtuse to my predicament.

"You don't own her, you fucking fat ass," Simon snarls.

Buzz lets out a growl of rage, stomping forward. His feet throw up water as he rushes towards Simon's open window, immediately sticking his hand into the car. His fist meets Simon's nose a sickening crunch; I scream, letting out a squawk like a cantankerous parrot. "AAAH!" I yell, zipping forward. I grab the back of Buzz's shirt with so much force he tumbles backwards, landing on my lap.

With sausage-like fingers, Buzz grabs onto the window.

At that moment, blood-nosed Simon begins to raise the window on his car, trapping Buzz's fingers. "SIMON!" I holler, red-faced and furious. "SIMON!" While Buzz hollers with rage, wriggling back and forth on my lap, I zip forward. Although I can't feel Buzz's weight – no doubt crushing my legs – pushing my wheelchair forward makes me realize I'm carrying 200 extra pounds of muscle.

Screeching, while Buzz hollers with rage, I rap on Simon's door with my knuckles. He's smiling smugly, laughing, with tears streaming down his face. "Simon!" I yell. "Simon!"

Since that isn't working, I lose my patience. "Buzz, get off me!" I bark, pressing both of my palms against his shoulder blades. He's still roaring in my lap, red-faced, as he tries to wiggle his fingers off the window. "Buzz, honey, we're getting nowhere here," I say impatiently.

He stops his incessant weeping and turns to look at me, wide-eyed like a baby passing gas. "Look, honey," I say, as if speaking to a toddler, even though I feel like screaming bloody murder. "Get off my lap, stand up, and I'll try to solve this."

It takes him minutes to comply with the request – I have to repeat it several times, because he doesn't grasp it in spite of his rage. Once Buzz has found his footing, he starts punching the window on Simon's BMW. One sickening crunch after the other, he gradually begins to make work of every inch of that window.

I roll away as quickly as I can. Simon's loud snickering has turned into a scowl of rage; Buzz has now punctuated the window of his car twice over, leaving a spiderweb-like pattern of shattered glass. Buzz is spewing out obscenities, most of which would make Emmett blush. In fact, he's quite vocally threatened to stick something up Simon's rear-end. I'm shaking my head, utterly terrified.

Drenched to the core, I reach Simon's door, and tap on his window several times. Simon has turned his head in my direction; he's blinking at me, utterly shocked. Frozen in spot, Simon doesn't open the car window like I was expecting.

Simon only stares; Buzz, lost in his rage, is still pummeling what remains of the window. His blood is trickling down what remains, falling with the shreds of glass.

Huffing irritably, I fling the passenger's door open. I open it by keeping one hand on a chair wheel and the other one on the door. I roll backwards, and it flies open.

"Simon," I say gently, as if speaking to a toddler. Luckily, Simon's trance is broken faster than Buzz', and he stares intently at me. "Simon, honey, I'll ride with you, but you need to let Buzz off the hook, pun intended. You can't take your anger out on people like this."

Simon blinks spastically in my direction. "I can't," he finally says, emotionless. "He'll trash the car if I let him lose."

Indeed, behind us, uninterrupted by the conversation and as if possessed by a wild animal, Buzz's face - and fingers - are turning a dark, bruise-like purple. With a scream of rage, he starts to flinging the vehicle back and forth; he shoves all of his body weight against it.

Quite honestly, the sight makes my blood run cold.

"Buzz," I yell, hoarsely. "John…John," I figure saying his full name might work better than using his silly nickname. "John, honey…"

He doesn't even look up.

I bury my face in my hands.

"I'm going to get into your car, Simon," I say, resigned. "And then we'll drive away."

By the way he smiles, you'd think Simon had won the lottery. The beam lights up his entire face, like a backlit lamp, and his eyes fill with adoration. It makes me want to puke, to be perfectly honest, and there are tingles of nerves shooting up and down my arm. Yet I suck it up, smiling grimly in Simon's direction.

Again, I open the backseat door, and I angle my chair towards it. I _feel _Simon behind me; I hear the sound of his teeth gritting, the wet thump-squeak of his shoes on the concrete. I make quick work of transferring; glad – for the first time – that I wear fingerless gloves. They give me a sturdy grip over my slick-wet wheelchair. Buzz's face has turned to one of utter, unbelievable outrage. I lower the window, sticking my head out like a golden retriever.

His blood-shot eyes look like they're about to bulge out of his sockets. "Nessie, goddamn it!" he growls with rage, purple-faced. "For fuck's sake, Nessie!"

I'm fully aware of Simon moving around us. Mumbling to himself unintelligibly, with thinly-veiled delight, Simon pulls my chair apart. Expertly, he de-attaches the pressurized cushion from the base, then de-attaches the chair's wheels and folds up the backrest. Simon is so giddy I can hear the enthrallment in his every breath. Done, Simon slams the trunk so roughly I jump up, startled. Practically whistling, Simon returns to his seat.

"A) You don't punch people," I say snappishly, turning my attention to my boyfriend. "B) He got here first, so I'm riding with him." I hate applying Kindergarten etiquette to myself, as if I were the swings on the freaking playground.

"BUT I'M YOUR BOYFRIEND!" he roars. I wince, wide-eyed with fear. I can hear my blood pulsating in my ears, up and down my body. "I'm your boyfriend, Nessie! For shit's sake."

"You need to calm down," I say with equal imperiousness, even though I'm scared to the point of trembling. My hands are rattling like maracas. "I'm riding with Simon not because I'm not your girlfriend anymore, but because he got to me first and he helped me down the bleachers."

Like the Beast in that Disney movie when he looks into Gaston's eyes at the very end, Buzz's face changes. The rage in his face dissipates slowly, like clouds blowing past sunlight. "But Ness…" Buzz finally murmurs. "Ness, sweetheart…"

"Please," I say, suddenly realizing I'm crying. "Just…Please…"

I don't even know what I'm asking for, but he seems to find sense in my plea. Buzz stops his punching, falling into a pile of defeat like a wounded beast. In that very moment, Simon releases his fingers from the window's grip, leaving a crust of blood atop it. With the tip of my nose pressed to the windowpane, I watch as we drive away. Buzz's electric blue eyes are gentle, almost doe-like, contorting with pain. Unable to meet them, I lower my gaze.

Barely a mile passes, and I start to bawl.

Balling my fists, I slam one against the other and stick the other one in my mouth. I bite down hard, hiccupping as tears stream down my face. Simon's happy tune stops when he realizes I'm sucking in air, crying like there's no tomorrow. I don't even necessarily know what set me off; lately, even Dog Chow commercials do the trick.

Simon's knuckles, holding onto the steering wheel, are white. A trickle of blood drips down what remained of his nose, soaking his upper lip. "Nessie, love, please stop crying," he croons gently. "Please, love."

I cringe at his use of that term of endearment. "Don't call me 'love'. I'm not your girlfriend, Simon."

Like a dark cloud, Buzz - the reminder that Simon isn't my boyfriend - has been following us in his car. I see my boyfriend, his face icy and emotionless behind us, like a splotch of red paint in the curtain of white made by the rain. I even see the mangled remains of his blotchy, purple fingertips, coated with blood.

"I'm sorry," Simon says pleadingly, finally.

Silence engulfs the car for a stretch of road so long we reach the Interstate.

"I accept your apology," I murmur softly.

Something has got to change; I can't do this anymore. I just can't. It's been too much, too much for any one person to handle. All I want to do lately is curl up inside my bed and die, leaving the world outside at the door.

And I need to stop the loneliness, before it crushes me into thousands of tiny pieces.

And maybe forgiving Simon is a step in the right direction.

That gives me the courage to break the silence. "This is great car," I say, giving him a smile that stretches from dimple to dimple.

"It's a BMW M6, goes from 0-100 km in less 4.3 seconds," he tells me happily.

"I liked the Audi, too, though. You can't beat the 360 in 5 seconds," I retort playfully, showing a peek a genuine smile. It works. The iciness he's been regaling me since I suggested he didn't drive me home melts. Simon's smile broadens, childish and sweet; his grin turns goofy. _This _is the boy I grew to love as a friend. "Yeah, but this has more space and more horsepower, which is better because…"

Shreds of ice remain, because Buzz is behind me, and my family is in front of us. This was _stupid_, not because of the awkward silences or because Simon and I still have so much to iron out. No, this was stupid because he shouldn't be here – I wouldn't put it past my father to throw in another punch, considering the last 50 punches didn't drive home his point. Simon notices I grow nervous, but I fill the silence with mindless chatter. _Keep him talking_, I think. _Keep him talking. _

Eventually, I inquire about rehabilitation. I've been careful to schedule visits around his, to avoid a re-run. He fills me in on his rehabilitation process; I chip in sluggishly, closing my eyes as I share some personal anecdotes. In that state, Simon drives me home. Throughout the drive, I get calls from Buzz. He's driving behind us, but I refuse to turn my head in his direction, considering he's called me six times in the last 30 minutes. I haven't even taken my phone out of my bag. I refused to answer, both to avoid hurting Simon and because _he _started this by leaving me stranded on a bleacher.

Simon and I talk about light things like that; quite honestly, his rehabilitation stories are enough to last us through the entire drive. As we approach the perimeter of my family's property – and my father's hearing range – my breathing starts to quicken. "What's bugging you?"

Anxious, I bury my face in my hands. "We have to stop the car, Lowell," I say morosely. "We have to stop it _this second._"

"Why?" he demands, a whine of insolence in his voice; he does, however, slow down the car. He leaves us standing still; without the motor running, the sound of the rain drumming against the car's metal is deafening.

I chose my words carefully. "My family knows you hit me," I say hesitantly.

In his own face, emotion wages battle – guilt explodes with anger, like lithium meeting water. His face contorts, his mouth twisted into an angry S as the pendulum flings between the two emotions. A million different scowls flash across his face.

Finally, guilt wins, and his eyes drop guiltily to my legs, where they dangle. "I…I understand_,_" he says, his voice thick with guilt. His shoulders are drooping. "I understand _why _they'd react so strongly, too."

The way he meets my eyes tells me he remembers – knows – who is responsible for his injuries. Immediately, I look away in shame. I can't bear to look.

Simon shouldn't have hit me, but Daddy shouldn't have beaten him up so brutally in response, either. "I'm so sorry about that, Simon. So very sorry," I whisper softly. I give his hand a squeeze, my shoulders drooping under the weight of my guilt.

He squeezes it back. " 's not your fault," he says with finality. "You shouldn't beat yourself up over it."

Finally, I chance peeking up at him through thick, butterfly eyelashes. I smile at him, for the first time, with such fondness I might burst.

"Could you, eh, get my chair, please?"

He nods, rising. He opens the trunk, and pulls out my chair. Luckily, he doesn't even try to help me swivel into it. I lift my legs out of the vehicle by their velcro-strap, and suddenly stop. I'm overcome with some kind of emotion.

"Thank you for being so gracious about this." Slowly, I stretch out my neck, bracing my weight on my hands to press a tinny kiss to his cheek.

I regret it seconds later, because a smile spreads across his face, lighting it up.

The next couple of seconds pass in utter awkwardness. As I realize that was the stupidest thing I could've done, I turn scarlet. Sheepishly, I swivel out of the car seat and into my wheelchair.

"Ness, I...I should probably drive you home, now that I think about it."

I shake my head. "That'll be asking for trouble," I say. "Thank you, Si, but...I'll be fine."

I'm not entirely sure that's true, and by the look on his face, neither is he. Six months of friendship have taught Simon that maneuvering a wheelchair isn't for the fainthearted. Nodding worriedly, Simon climbs back into his car. "What the shit?" Buzz mumbles grumpily from his own car.

To reach the three-story, 6,500 square-feet Cullen mansion, one must turn left on the interstate. Making the trek in a wheelchair is OK, as maneuvering goes. Making the trek in a muddied wheelchair, soaking wet, isn't.

Nervously, Simon peers through his soaked windshield, the tip of his nose stuck to the glass. Buzz has parked his own car, parking it right behind ours. He watches our entire exchange expressionlessly.

Outside the car, my wheelchair isn't obeying; it doesn't zip right through in a straight line. Moistened and muddied, the chair wheels spin slightly left and right rather than fully forward. Like Moises carving up a tunnel in the Red Sea, the wheels of my wheelchair split water. Except of course this is a gazillion times more pathetic. Underneath my sweater and my skirt, my white oxford and the stockings I wear cling to my body like spandex.

Now just a few meters away from the turn towards the private road leading to the cul-de-sac outside the mansion, I gesture for Simon to leave. Simon complies worriedly, turning his car. Like a hearse, like a stalking bird of prey, Buzz turns his own car right after him. Buzz' expression is still somberly dark, as if currents were brewing underneath their depths.

A shiver runs up my spine. It has nothing to do with the rain. But because of that rain, there is very little time to dwell on it. Turning left on the interstate is cake-walk compared to what awaits. The problem starts at the edge of the interstate; there's a short stretch of asphalt-paved road of about 30 meters.

"Oh, yee-pee," I mumble moodily, reaching the end of the stretch.

At the edge of those thirty meters, the road turns into cobbled stones, before reaching the cul-the-sac. Interspaced haphazardly with the dirt around it, it turns quickly into mud. Groaning and shivering – because the rain is frigid – I start to zip through to the end of the stretch of road.

Luckily, somebody's vampy ear's kick in; Emmett rushes to the window pane, peering out comically, as though he can't believe his eyes. His jaw is open. "What the fuck are you doing, Nessie?"

"I went out for a spin in the rain," I say sardonically.

For a split second, Emmett looks like he might believe me. After all, going out for walks in the rain is the one symptom I haven't displayed. Lately, I've been acting like the Sadness doodle in that Inside Out movie, so it wouldn't be out of character.

Then he arches one eyebrow. In the blink of an eye, he's jumping out the window, using the windowsill as leverage. I squawk when he does. Within seconds, he's right in front of me. "Where's that little shit?" he grumbles. "He was supposed to get you here."

I scowl at him. "Can you get me out of the rain before you yell at me?" I ask, clearing my throat of what feels like a glob of phlegm.

"I ain't yellin'," he says, squatting down in front of my chair. "Your Aunt on the other hand…" He shudders but gives me an apologetic look, having been subjected to Rose's scorn several times already. I'm old enough, and un-cute enough, that I too am now subjected to Rose's scorn.

Emmett's sighs. Very gently, he unbuckles the lap belt holding me to my wheelchair, and lifts me up from it effortlessly. "It's faster like this," he says, pausing for a second. "I'll get your chair in a second, kiddo." I grimace, but nod. I don't like not using my chair because it's _faster_, but I've learned to sacrifice pride to necessity. I look like a drowned rat at this point, and my teeth have started clacking roughly, like pliers snapping. Shrugging, I wrap my arms around his neck.

The door creaks when Emmett opens it. Behind said door, Rosalie looks like the child Dracula would have had if he'd married a Barbie. Like The Exorcist unleashed, she lets out a scream when I walk in with Emmett. Rosalie's hair is drenched in water, turning it deep amber instead of its usual gold. Because of the blown-on heater, strands of it are starting to frizz, forming unruly curls along the lines of her forehead. The soft, personally-mixed Clinique eyeshadow and blush she orders is running down her cheeks, invisible to human eyes. The cashmere dress she put on this morning is hanging damply from her body. The accompanying, high-heeled boots are caked in mud.

"Where the_ hell _were you_, Renesmee?_" she yells, punctuating her statement with a high-pitched screech that makes me slam my hands against my ears.

I'm surprised the baccarat glasses don't shatter. Emmett winces, pulling me tighter to his chest. "Do you have _any _idea how worried I was?! How worried we _were_?!"

Burrowing my chin against my chest, I look down in shame. The gesture is as false as the bright red clip-ons adorning Rosalie's nails. "I'm very sorry, Auntie Rose," I peek up at her, hitting her with the brunt of my big, doe-like green eyes.

That doesn't even remotely pacify her. I'm losing my touch, I fear. "You should be sorry, Renesmee Cullen! You should be! You have a cellphone!" she bellows, running out of air.

Rose takes a deep breath, panting as she prepares for the next leg of her tirade. "I ran across the _fucking _football field at school for an eternity!" She throws her hands up into the air, appearing to want to grab onto the nearest vase. "And I skimmed the entire school property! Jasper is an inch from calling the police!"

"Rosie, can I…eh, set her down on the …"

"You don't have to ask for permission," Rosalie spits. Like a terrified little boy, Emmett scurries forward. He lowers me gently into a white armchair near Rose. "And don't interrupt!"

She looks around, as if in a daze, deciding what to say next. I know she's about to repeat some part of the aforementioned sermon. "You have a cellphone for this very purpose! To avoid this situation! Do you know how many things could have happened to you, Renesmee? Do you?"

I open my mouth, about to retort sharply that bleachers are known as deathtraps, hence why we pile hundreds of people on them.

However, I see Emmett – a 200-pound pile of living rock – cowering in a corner, terrified of the infuriated blonde in front of me. I should be even more scared.

Walking on his tip-toes, Emmett's scrambling away to the open door, where it is now hailing. Rosalie glares at him hatefully. "For the love of Pete, Emmett!" she hisses. "Just go get the wheelchair."

Emmett runs out like his life depends on it – because what Shakespeare really meant was that hell hath no fury like Rosalie Hale scorned.

Tilting my head down in shame, I peek up at Rose through thick eyelashes, looking apologetic. It seems to work better than looking cute, because Rose's face finally softens. Instead of yelling, she just glowers at me furiously. I don't break her gaze, deciding it's wise to let her vent like this.

In the midst of the staring contest, Emmett tip-toes his way back in. He's tucked my folded wheelchair underneath his arm, like its made of foam. Emmett unfolds it next to the armchair I'm on, and Rosalie's eyes widen.

"What happened to your chair?" she hisses in horror, clapping her hand against her mouth.

Rosalie's eyes fill with an emotion she considers sinful above Dante's seven: pity. Rose may be a lot of things, but weak isn't one of them. She taught me to despise pity-parties, and to avoid throwing them for myself.

"I, um, eh…." I stammer, wringing my hands in my lap. Babbling like a mindless idiot is also held in the same regard as prostitution. However, Rose seems too far gone to notice. There is a long pause following my statement, as Rosalie scrutinizes my appearance. Finally, she sighs, defeated.

"You should go change, Renesmee," she says neutrally, her eyes exhausted. I'm not out of the water – she's still using my ridiculous moniker – but she's not screeching like the Wicked Witch of the West anymore.

Rose holds her arms out into an awkward cradle, nonverbally requesting permission to carry me.

"Eh, I'd rather use my chair."

Rosalie frowns. "But it's dirty."

"But it's…" At a loss for words, I say the obvious. "It's my chair. I need it. "

Rose looks at me as though she fears I've finally lost my one remaining marble. God knows the rest of my marbles are as lost as Waldo.

She watches as I almost happily climb into my wheelchair; my skirt makes a wet, thumping noise like a when it slaps against the mud-covered pressurized cushion. Settled into it, I roll away. Once I'm up in the elevator, I hear Rose's muted request to Emmett. "I'll go help her change," she says tiredly. "Call everyone and let them know, would you?"

I'm already seating on the close-lidded toilet by the time Rose opens the door to the bathroom. I give her an apologetic smile, genuinely so. Almost reluctantly, the corners of her lips turn up into a soft, muted smile. She's never been able _not_ to smile at me, not ever. Wordlessly, she squats down, and takes off my left shoe. I just took off my right one, but my left abductor is as rigid as a totem pole – I can't twist the muscle much. Even when I'm strapped into my chair, I'm afraid I'll fall out.

"I'm really sorry, Aunt Rose," I say. "Genuinely so."

"Oh, darling," she finally mumbles. "I know you are." With the pet name, I know we're back in business. "But you really need to learn to contact us, Renesmee, that's why you have a phone."

"I will," I say, almost nonchalantly, as I start popping off buttons on my Oxford. It's now transparent, clinging to my body. My brassiere looks like a flashing neon light. Rose stills my movements, grasping me with unheard of roughness by the chin. "I mean it, Nessie."

Gob-smacked, I nod spastically. "I just…I just don't see the point all the time, you know? Alice would see if something really, really serious happened, wouldn't she?"

Rose's lips clamp shut as she considers the next part of her reply. "The future went black for the past thirty minutes, sweetheart. Alice couldn't around you."

* * *

><p>That day, the stress of the past three months finally bubbles over like a volcano exploding.<p>

It begins with foot spasms. I'm tucked snugly around a quilt, with blown-dried hair, watching ESPN. Rose drew me a nice, hot bath after I came home, and Emmett cleaned up my wheelchair. My legs are pulled up to my chest, propped up in that position by a special pillow. There's a box of tissues next to me, which I've been balling into snot-concealing balls all afternoon. Rose and Emmett are curled up on the couch next to mine, separated from me by a thick armrest. Contentedly, Rose is stroking my hair, occasionally dipping her fingers down to brush them against my cheeks.

Depending on when or how they happen, these spasms are either a blessing or a curse. Medically speaking, it's a good thing that the muscles clench of their own accord, in rhythmic motions. For me, it's rather bizarre. It's like watching my limbs flapping around like they're being exorcized. Sometimes, because God has a weird sense of humor, spasms start _happening _in public spaces – foot flaps up, foot flaps down, flap up, flap down, like the wings of a species-confused penguin trying to fly. People watching will occasionally consider it miraculous that kneecap is moving up and down like a hockey puck. Someone once asked me _why _I would need a wheelchair if I can do that. If I'm feeling gracious, I tell them to try walking flapping their foot up and down.

Noticing the thumps my legs make against the fabric, I look up. Rosalie's looking at my flailing limbs, her eyes wide with muted horror. "I'm fine," I reassure her softly, smiling gently. "It's probably my meds wearing off."

Emmett looks up at the mention of the aforementioned battalion of pills, frowning. His grip on Rose grows a little tighter, the lightheartedness he's known the world-over suddenly gone. I can tell neither of them pay much attention to the game after that. When the clock strikes 6:00, Rosalie's already in front of me, bearing a cup of water and all of my pills.

Quite honestly, my daily pill intake would make me look like a drug addict. I pop more pills than a Valium junkie. I take medication for spasticity, and for neuropathic pain. Anti-anxiety drugs help sometimes as muscle relaxants, when my legs get too stiff. It doesn't escape my notice that Rose is holding one – an anti-anxiety drug - now. Some of my pills are much larger than a normal human's, containing several times the average dosage; Carlisle's been dealing directly with the pharmacological companies, having them produce pills in bigger dosages. I have a faster metabolism and a higher body temperature; I burn through an average pill very quickly – the bigger ones work better.

I smile at Rose sheepishly after swallowing them down, wrapping an arm around her and giving her a light squeeze. She beams, a luminescent smile reserved only for me, touching her index finger gently to my nose. Rose croons at me in a murmur, almost adoringly "My beautiful baby girl."

Rose and Emmett vanish a little later, with the former promising to come back to do my therapy before the day is out. She didn't really need to waste her breath, I grumble mentally, because not a day goes by where I don't at _least _have my limbs stretched out.

It is around that time that the symptoms start. My head starts to hurt, and starts to feel like a block of marble; Holding it up strains my head, and my shoulders start to hurt as well. Medicine or no medicine, my legs continue trembling as if emulating slinky toys. Grunting, I grab each of my legs to stretch it out, and then scoot forward to lie down. I use the back of the couch as a grab-bar to help. Resting my body weight on my arms makes the arms hurt, and I end up in an awkward position, somewhere between sitting up and lying down on the couch. My blanket is twisted around my limbs. I don't know if my breath is growing short because my body hurts or because my chest does. The thought doesn't keep me up, though; my eyes start to droop of their own accord, responding to my exhaustion.

I open them up again to a trembling, albeit deliciously cold, feather-light touch.

… "She's burning up," Rosalie moans. "Emmett, she's burning up with fever."

Groggy, I open my eyes. I blink spastically, trying to re-focus the world around me. My breathing sounds wheezy. Rose notices my eyelashes are fluttering open and her breath catches in her throat. I'm uncomfortably warm.

"I'll call Carlisle," Emmett says solemnly, his eyes wide with horror.

"Sweetheart, how do you feel, baby?" she asks gently, her voice rough with desperation.

If I were more clear-headed, I wouldn't say what I say so bluntly.

"My chest hurts," I mumble, my voice hoarse as I try to push the air out. Punctuating my statement, I let out a pathetic pseudo cough. I sound like a society-wife asking for people's attention at a luncheon, but that's how my cough has always sounded.

Both Emmett and Rose react like I've dropped the atomic bomb. "Oh, God," Rose whispers, paling imperceptibly, "Oh, God."

In all fairness, they're not being _uber -_melodramatic. Because of my paralysis, my intercostal muscles or my abdominal muscles are frozen, and I can't force a cough. What that means, to put it grossly, is that I can't expel phlegm out of my lungs – and that _is _tragic. "Mucous secretions are like glue, causing the sides of airways to stick together and not inflate properly. This is called atelectasis, or a collapse of part of the lung," I read on the Internet once. A collapsed lung means I'd be a step closer to the grave, even if the metaphor doesn't really work in my very

"I'm – going…" I suck in air, spewing it back out with a tinny cough, "to be" I should just shut my mouth, "fine - Rose." When you say it like that though, like Jack at the end of Titanic, I sound like that's a categorical lie. I should've kept my mouth shut.

Rose looks like she might start crying. Very gently, Emmett puts the phone to her ear.

"_How warm is she?_"

"I haven't taken her temperature. Several degrees warmer than usual, if I had to guess…She's burning up. It feels like touching a red-hot iron poker…." Rose's voice is trembling. "And she's trying to cough up."

"_Right now assist her with coughing the expectorate, and then set up the Cough Assist,_" Carlisle's talking in his doctor's voice, a usually sternly gentle voice. Right now, it sounds stern out of terror. "_Do 6 sequences, with 20 second rest-periods, and couple them with manual assistance. I would recommend about 2 seconds of inhalation and exhalation, with a 1 second pause in between the two._"

"Alright," Rose says, her eyes glassy with terror. "Sitting up or lying down?"

"_I assume it'll be easier to spit out expectorate if she's sitting up. Give her chicken broth to drink once she's done. I'll have to see her personally to diagnose her," _he finishes off. "_I'll be home as soon as I can._"

Rose gets snappish. "When exactly?"

"I'll confirm shortly, Rosalie."

"Ugh," she scoffs, hanging up the phone. The irritable expression on her face vanishes when she turns to look at me, and she cups my cheek. "Can I put you in your chair, baby? Or would you like me to carry you, love?" she whispers gently.

Sleepily, I blink up at her. My nose sounds plugged and my voice breaks as I struggle to cough out air. "May – be – ca – dee – me - up, pl – hee - ss?"

Rose nods. Her eyes are glassy with pooling venom. The look on her is as soft as marshmallows, coated with a dread that seems to be as paralyzing as the injury I sustained at the claws of Jacob Black. As if handling a relic as old as time, she slips her hands under my knees and then under my torso. Being lifted hurts even though Rose is being very gentle. I nuzzle my head against her shoulder, even as I'm wheezing air in and out.

With that same gentleness, Rose tucks me in. She props my back up with pillows, stretching out my legs in front of me. Once I'm tucked in, Rose seems marginally calmer. "Alright, sweetheart, are you ready?" She presses her fingers expertly underneath my rib-cage, with her thumbs pointing at the center of my breast bone. "On the count of three, love."

"One…Two…" I suck in as much air as will go in.

"Three…" Once I release the air, trying to force a cough, Rose shifts her fingers forward and eventually, I feel and taste the salty mint colored goo in my mouth. It isn't a pleasant activity, but Rose helps me with it every day. She hands me a tissue and I spit it out.

Rose beams at me proudly. "Alright, baby, one more and I'll bring over the Cough Assist," she says lovingly. "One…Two…Three…" Again, I suck in air, finding that it turns into a struggle quite quickly. Rose shifts her fingers forward, almost as if trying to claw in my ribs. I force a cough when on Three.

"Good job, princess," she says lovingly. "I'll bring up the cough assist, OK?"

I shouldn't hate something that has kept me alive through several aggressive respiratory infections, but I do hate the Cough Assist. It's a small machine, consisting of a small box with several knobs, connected by a long tube to a mask. Rose places it over my mouth before pulling the cord over my head and adjusting it. For a couple of seconds, she helps me sit in a comfortable position, propping me up nicely. Once I'm sitting up straight, Rose begins adjusting the knobs – first the inhalation time, then the exhalation time. I despise the Cough Assist because I'm forced to try and cough along with it; when the suctioning of air begins, I'm supposed to force the cough.

At first, I feel air rushing sharply into my lungs, deeper than it typically goes. It's a pleasant sensation, up until the air starts to get sucked out. Startled every single time, I force the cough with the back of my throat. Usually, at the end of the sessions, my throat hurts, because that's the only mechanism I have for forcing the cough out. Without a functioning set of intercostal muscles, I can't do much else. We stop every now and then as Rose captures some of the phlegm with a tissue, with the same no-nonsense, disgust-free attitude she's adopted.

I'm raw-throated and phlegm-covered when the 40 minutes of assisted coughing is done.

The procedure is repeated every five hours, even if I'm profoundly asleep, and requires effort. By midnight, when Rose wakes me up to go through 40 minutes of coughing, I start to cry.

* * *

><p>Carlisle diagnoses me with bronchitis, which sends the entire house into a panic. Bronchitis is similar to pneumonia, and that is the leading cause of death for spinal cord injured patients. Esme starts sterilizing dishes and changing my linens every day. Daddy had left "to go on a hunting trip" on Tuesday, the day before my lungs went into overdrive. He tends to be physically incapable of saying goodbye, and instead leaves a note and he calls once he's reached his destination. Rose has started withholding his goodbye notes, re-transmitting them verbally. "He <em>says <em>he's sorry, and that he'll be within reach whenever you need him," she'll mumble, "and some other nonsense about loving you very much, which I believe he has a fine way of showing."

"Idiot boy," she'll mumble as she walks away.

Daddy comes back immediately, though.

The next few days fall into an agonizing routine, by which I eventually start to lose my voice. It stops sounding like a chorus at church and instead starts sounding like a bunch of tone-deaf bullfrogs. My throat is hoarse from constantly straining itself to cough. My rib-cage still feels as if it were being used as a punching bag; my lungs feel like they've been squeezed by Play-Dough. Joining the battalion of anti-spasticity and pain medication has been a range of fever-lowering and phlegm-expectorant drugs. It seems like I'm popping a pill every half-hour, to little or no avail because – responding to stimuli – my abdomen has started to spasm. It balloons up like I'm a frog about to squirt its tongue out for eating purposes.

The upside of all of this is that it leaves me little time to think about anything, much less my love-life. With that, I've been catching up on some much-needed sleep.

Right now, Rose and "idiot boy" have reached one of their infamous truces for my well-being. They're alternating turns for checking on me, having squabbled about it like children about to go on the merry-go-round. Ever since puberty hit and a few pimples popped out – courtesy of Daddy's gene pool – though, Rose has _really _become my primary caregiver. She's the one that helps me with coughing, therapy and with basic self-care. He's too prudish to touch anything below my neck or above my wrists.

At this particular moment, though, I'm just on the CoughAssist machine. I'm propped up on my back, with the mask atop my dainty little nose and mouth, feeling the air being pumped into my lungs. The relief passes quickly, though, turning into saddened exasperation when the time comes for me to cough the air out, even if it is with assistance. Next to me, Daddy's gently holding my clammy hand in his, an expression so blue on his face that he could easily become the star of Blue's Clues.

He grins sadly at that, running his fingers down my cheek.

Through the foggy mask, and in spite of the phlegm accumulating in my throat, I smile back. I open my mouth to suck in air, annoyed already because my throat _burns. _I start to force the cough, gripping one of my inter-coastal muscles as though as if to remind myself it's there. Something in Daddy's expression shifts. The sadness in his face bubbles into agony, and from there converges into anger and finally into determination.

So he was too prudish _before,_ because the next time I start to force a cough, he helps me with it. His fingers find the spot at the center of my chest, and he digs them in, forcing out the phlegm and dust much faster. Daddy's brow furrows in concentration as he does this, be it because he's struggling to ignore my boobs or because he's fiercely trying to help me cough, I don't know.

"Both," he says, coughing himself, unable to meet my eye.

I have to take off the mask in the next inhalation, because I start laughing.

It's the first time I laugh in months. Daddy's face lights up at the sound, and he cups my cheek with something akin to adoration.

* * *

><p>From that moment on, Bronchitis turns into a funny kind of blessing. I catch up on some desperately needed sleep, giving myself the opportunity to do nothing but curl up and sleep. I spent most days either watching movies, reading or sleeping. It doesn't mean that the world outside isn't conspiring against me; the world envelops my house and its safety, punctuating the fortress in the form of bouquet's. The sheer number of bouquets has made the house smell of flowers, to the point of being sickening.<p>

I get my first bouquet from Nate Crawford on April 1st. It doesn't escape my notice that it's April's Fools Day, so I spend much of the afternoon gazing at the sunflowers as if expecting a clown to pop out of their center, declaring "It's a Joke, It's a Joke, It's a Joke…" When that didn't happen, I gingerly grabbed one of the sunflowers by the stem, twirling it underneath my chin like a love-sick school girl.

By Day 2 of my illness, Buzz was knocking down our door, promising to cleave a fissure right through it. I was napping at the time, and had I been awake, I would have agreed with Esme that it was best to keep him at bay. I looked, felt and _smelled _awful, like medicine and sweat. By Day Three, I'd received my first $200 arrangement of lilies, and I've received cheaper ones every day since.

Simon retaliated with bougainvillea floral arrangements, but this time around, Daddy was the one to turn them into potpourri. I'd find it funny, since he watched Martha Stewart do it before doing it himself, but of course, Daddy's furious. Much to his chagrin, Simon has started to show up personally. The fort he's holding up has been under further attack, considering Simon Lowell has knocked on our door, too. I was deeply asleep when that happened, and so I heard nothing of the commotion.

In spite of my fierce efforts to explain that Simon and I were once again on speaking terms, Daddy didn't budge an inch. I posited Simon has shown his repentance by not accusing Daddy with the police, as his mother has been attempting to do for _weeks. _In reply, Daddy came as close as he ever has to saying, "I don't give a shit." Much to Daddy's irritation, Simon has only redoubled his efforts.

Luckily for him, up until Saturday afternoon – fourteen days into my illness –, I'd been deeply asleep or disgustingly smelly during their many, many visits. On Saturday, having taken my first hot bath in a while, I'm wrapped around a blanket "like a bug in a rug." Emmett set up some sort of outside heater thing; I'm lying on an outdoor sun-chair, enjoying a little bit of sun and fresh air. Reluctantly, Carlisle agreed. I still can't talk much; point in fact, my cough sound like little rough hiccups, punctuating my every word. My nose is clogged, but my fever has subsided.

Carlisle's sitting moodily inside the house, peering at me while pretending to read the latest tome of _Journal of Stem Cell Research and Therapy. _Rather, he's doing both at the same time. Stupid vampy abilities. It is at that moment that the doorbell rings. Had my entire body not reeked of Vicks VapoRub, and had my nose not been up to its sinuses with snot, I would have probably smelled him first.

Grumbling suspiciously, Carlisle rises from his armchair and stomps towards the door.

I _hear _him before I see him.

"Dr. Cullen, sir, I…eh…"

My jaw falls open. There's a chorus in response to the voice: Rosalie squeals excitedly, like the skin is being flailed from her body, and all the males in the house hiss like cobras poised to strike.

"I….Ah, eh…"

Carlisle doesn't move; I can just imagine the expression on his face. It's either the wide-eyed look of a startled deer or the disgust-filled look of someone gazing at an earthworm. All the while, I cough out air – which, in my case sounds like wheezing after a first smoke.

"I'm eh…I'm Nate Crawford, Dr. Cullen, sir," Nate stutters by way of introduction. "I, eh…I'm a..friend – eh, classmate, of, eh, Nessie – your, eh, daughter, eh."

He holds out his hand; I hear his bones crack as Carlisle squeezes it in his own marble-hard palm. I cough, cough, cough. Beats of excruciatingly awkward silence pass.

I swat the hundred balls of Kleenex and snot I've made in the past hour, and disentangle my legs from my blanket…"I, eh, came to eh…"

My muscles groaning in protest as I hoist my body onto my chair and then fling my legs onto it…

"I, eh, I brought, her, eh…Some chocolate, Dr. Cullen, sir."

"She's not eating chocolate right now," Carlisle sneers, so rudely I feel appalled. "It irritates the throat." Then again, anyone ruder would've kicked out Nate by now.

…I wheel forward as fast as I possibly can, thankful that they left the glass door open for me to zip through. My muscles ache out of exertion and I feel like I'm going to choke to death; shortness of breath and chronic coughing don't mesh well together. It is in that tone of voice that I croak out:

"But – I – " cough, cough, cough, "- can – eat – them – late- he he-r."

"Sweetheart, what are you doing?" Carlisle demands sharply, his expression a mix of bewilderment and disapproval. He glares at Nate as if he were the anti-Christ incarnate. Nate, in turn, is staring at me – his expression is drenched in pity. When I open my mouth to reply, he shakes his head. "Never you mind, my darling," he said quickly.

I cough out forcefully, pressing my fingers into my ribcage to push out the phlegm, in the hopes that I'll be able to say the next statement. My voice still sounds as raw as the inside of a Taco Bell shell. "Hey, Nate. Come in," I say, in a poor attempt at sweet nonchalance. Since that doesn't work, I smile at him. It lights up my eyes.

Softly, he grins back. "Hey, Ness," he says hesitantly, meeting Carlisle's glare from the corner of his baby blue eyes. Apprehensively, he steps past Carlisle, who cocks one dark blond eyebrow. I spin my chair, giving him another big, toothy smile. I no doubt look like a creepy party clown, but I chose to ignore the apprehension. Instead, I roll straight out into the wide balcony with its wicker lawn furniture.

"Could you –" cough, cough, cough, "get the door?"

Nate's looking at me pitifully, like he's expecting me to pop out an inch-long violin and start playing it. I decide not to transfer, instead locking the breaks on my chair. My arms hurt from the effort of pushing it. Swiftly, I pick up a blanket and drape it over my legs. When I peek back up at him, he's still looking at me like I'm as doleful as Tiny Tim.

"Stop looking at me like that," I manage to choke out in one breath. I don't sound as aggressive I feel in that moment.

Brow furrowed, he sinks on a wicker armchair. "Like what?"

"With pity," I say, coughing. "I'm sick –" cough, cough, cough "— I'm not dying."

"When – you –" he mock-wheezes, "say it – like –" he mock-coughs, "this…It does sound like you're dying."

I let out a laugh, giggling, and in that same breath hold up my middle finger. Involuntarily, the corners of his lips twist up. "Now that we're on the subject, what knocked you out?" Somewhere in the back of the house, Rosalie's hissing at Carlisle, "_Give her privacy, for Pete's sake._"

"_The hell he should_!" Emmett hisses back. "_This is ridiculous. It's bad enough that horny little Heff-lick boy…!" _

_"__Hemlich!" _

_"__Whatever, Rose._"

"Bronchitis," I say, ignoring the lunatics' shouting match unfolding around us.

"Well, then… Here's a Get Well Soon gift, I guess." Sheepishly and blushing, Nate holds out a gold-colored box with a large, golden ribbon in the middle. "I know they 'irritate the throat' but…"

"It's the thought that counts," I finish for him, gazing at him warmly with my pair of big, doe-like eyes. Nate nods, meeting my gaze. I set the box down on my lap, pulling the ribbon open. In spite of Carlisle's admonishments, I grab one of the caramel-filled truffles and stick it in my mouth after a quick glance at the assorted offers. Chewing it slowly, I hand the box to Nate.

"No, they're yours," he says, playfully.

"But – I can't –" cough, cough, cough, "Eat them for – " cough, cough, cough, "A while."

"How long is a while?"

"Three weeks."

"Will you be able to talk by then?"

Crawford and I stare at each other; I peek at him through thick, butterfly eyelashes and he gazes back at me for several long minutes – until I'm struck by a stroke of brilliance. Grinning, I grab my phone from where it's sitting atop my book. It's a rather depressing read, but it's interesting and I've virtually devoured it. It's called _Room. _I hold it up at Crawford as if making a toast with the device.

**See? This is easier than the cough-word-cough situation. **

Crawford's cellphone beeps. He picks it up; and then smiles from ear to ear when he sees my text message.

**Sure is! We should make you debate like this in May. **

My own grin falls. Of course Crawford only came for debating purposes; there's no other reason why he'd buy me chocolate.

While I'm in the midst of typing another message, stopping briefly to unclog my nose, I hear the clang of the doorbell ringing.

"Good lord in heaven!" Esme clucks, evidently displeased. "This is getting ridiculous."

"You're quite popular, aren't you, Cullen?" Nate says; his voice is playful.

"Little shit's more right than he knows," Emmett grumbles in tandem.

There's a darker undertone to his voice I don't quite care for. I'm not enough of a lunatic to believe the emotion is jealousy.

… But apparently my boyfriend is that crazy. The pitifully, sweetly apologetic expression Buzz wears quickly morphs into dark, undiluted jealousy. He crushes the bouquet of lilies he holds in his hands, the stems cracking. Rose, who has enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug, notices. Her own expression shifts, realizing there's a rift unfolding.

"John, darling!" she croons, too dense to realize how bizarre it is to call a fellow classmate that. "Nessie is right through that door over there."

"I see her," he says through gritted teeth, stomping through the mahogany floors towards said balcony. Drenched in light and cocooned in a blanket, I'm waiting. An awkward silence has just enveloped Nate and I; from the corner of our eyes, we're both peeking at Buzz, who has gradually started to turn red in the face.

Buzz stomps to the glass door. He opens it in a single motion.

Immediately, without any preambles, Buzz squats down in front of my chair. I tilt up my head, puckering my lips; he presses his own lips against mine rather furiously, running his tongue across my lower lip, nibbling. He captures the nape of my neck in his beefy hands, cupping my head and pulling it even closer towards him.

"Hi, baby," he says, his voice gruff. Keeping a hand on the back of my neck, and another hand gently on my knee, he turns to glower at Nate. "What up, fucker."

He says it flatly, all of the mirth with which he insults his friends gone. Nate says nothing in return, his expression blank.

"You shouldn't do that. I'm –" cough, cough, cough, "sick."

"I brought you these," Buzz continues; virtually shoving them in my lap, atop the Godiva, chocolates. He doesn't wait for me to say anything, instead launching into his planned verbal attack. "I didn't know you two were friends."

"We are," I say, my voice soft. I don't feel like I'm lying. The peevish smiles Nate and I exchange feel oddly reassuring. I didn't think I'd ever say that about Julia Crawford's offspring, but now I do.

For some reason, throughout the past month, Nate Crawford has turned that normalcy into his presence in my table during Religious Ed. Every class period, he's there five minutes before Alice and I are, seated on his chair already so I can maneuver mine in. The first time Nate deliberately gave me the _honor of his presence, _he was wet-puppy eager to tell me, grudgingly, of the alternatives he found to football. Since then, I've become his guidance counsellor – his snarky, irritable, no-jokes counsellor. I told Nate a couple of classes ago that if he wanted somebody to indulge his pity parties about how little he enjoyed being Student Body treasurer, he could go to Mrs. Todd, the real guidance counsellor. At that, Nate actually gave me a genuinely amused smile and we ended up laughing.

That has turned into some candid conversations about Mrs. Crawford, the former Julia Kennedy, and Nate's dad – Senator Nathaniel Crawford Jr. I have to bite my tongue every time he talks about his mother, in an attempt to seem more sympathetic than rude. I wouldn't personally call the shrew that is Julia Crawford "charitable" and "sweet," but I don't want to solve his Momma's Boy complex. We talk about his Daddy issues enough – about how nothing is good enough in Senator Crawford's eyes, about the Senator's gerrymandering schemes and the legality of his stock in Shell and British Petroleum. Senator Crawford is a Republican candidate in a democratic-majority state, through rather shady electoral schemes.

I tell Nate its bloody illegal, the gerrymandering and that the BP stock represents a conflict of interest. Nate disagrees. His politics are funny, I think, because on an abstract level, he seems to agree with me on most things. Sometimes, we watch SNL parodies on YouTube on his phone – stuffing the little device between pages of the Holy Bible – and he laughs more at the jabs directed at Daddy's party than at the opposition. I tell him about how my family is also of the hardcore Republican variety, and we laugh at that, too. Apparently, I portrayed Jasper's obsession with the Civil War to a T. It's rather unfair to forgo the detail that my blonde Uncle fought in the conflict, but his obsession is funny regardless.

I break the current silence in the only way I can think of. "Did you guys see that new sketch on Comedy Central?"

Buzz grunts; Nate shakes his head. I assume they both mean the same thing, and I don't care regardless. For two people that claim to be each other's best friends, Nate and Buzz have interests as immiscible as oil and water. Not only can I not hold a conversation right now, but I'm also too sick to try to talk about something with the two of them. Realizing Nate can't squat next to my chair, I wheel over to where he's sitting. Buzz'll have to squat.

It's a miserable occasion for all parties involved. I lead us through a wide array of YouTube videos, some featuring John Stewart and the rest featuring home-made feats, like dogs jumping over hoops. Neither of them laughs during such videos, and I force a giggle that makes me sound like an 80-year-old chronic smoker chortling.

* * *

><p>Daddy puts me out of my misery a half hour later, after a heated discussion with Rose on the topic. Rose believes this to be a critically important moment if I'm to truly become a permanent member of New York state elite – which can't technically happen either.<p>

Unable to emerge into the sunlit balcony, Daddy raps three times against the glass pane door. "You need to leave," he spits, rudely. "Nessie needs to rest."

I huff out air, looking up at the heavens and requesting all the patience the Lord has to offer.

Both of them look torn between not taking orders from such a rude lowerclassman and ending the horror of this evening. Buzz chooses the – shockingly – smartest strategy under duress. In a single move, he annoys Daddy but doesn't disobey him, and marks his territory - in the style of a puppy-turned-dog.

Buzz gives me another possessive, heated kiss. From the corner of my eye, I realize Nate looks away, lips pursed and teeth clenched. I break the kiss by tugging so tightly on Buzz's blond hair, like I intend to tug it out of his skull. Why, oh, why, is he acting like such an ape?

"Bye, sweetheart. Get well soon," he says heatedly; at his eye-level. Daddy's glowering at him, clenching his fists at his side. Below it, I, too, glower at him. "I'll be back one of these days, baby."

I bite back the urge to say something scathing.

"Bye, Ness," Nate says. I give him a soft, apologetic smile and a wave.

He smiles back.

The two boys squeeze past my murderous looking father, who looks like he wants to grab them by the collar and rattle them like salt shakers. I follow behind, wheeling my chair as if driving a hearse; my arms still hurt, and I'm sure the past hour did nothing good for my fever. Physically and mentally exhausted, I'm having a hard time moving. All I want to do is curl up under a blanket and never, ever come out.

Fate has other plans. I've always thought some cosmic force out there has me at the top of some black list. The belief is confirmed today, because as Nate and Buzz each drive away, Simon's cherry-red BMW convertible brushes past the boys' convertible. The top is down; he's wearing a pair of ray-bans, which – coupled with the scar along his jaw – give him a roguish look.

I groan, burying my face in my hands.

Daddy's eyes turn to slits; he hisses, like a snake, running to the door's threshold like thunder striking. Within seconds, he's tethering on its very edge. I roll forward, and grab a fistful of his shirt, restraining him. "Daddy, for the love of all that's holy…Not now," I plead tiredly.

"What else, exactly, would you have me do?" he hisses, almost cruelly. In that moment, Simon's door clicks shuts, as he re-emerges, carrying a stuffed giraffe underneath his arm and a small bouquet of bougainvillea flowers.

"I want you to wait," I say, "because this is _my _situation, and I will handle all of it."

With more strength that I think possible, I push him roughly aside. He's so shocked by the violence of the gesture that he doesn't reciprocate; that, and he can't find it in him to hurt me back. I wheel past him; he doesn't stop me, because roughly shoving my wheelchair backwards can fling me out of it, and grabbing it by the handles is going to make his hands sparkle like disco balls.

"Get back in here this instant," Daddy snarls. "I mean it. Isabella Renesmee Cullen, get back in here now."

At that moment, of course, I'm already down the wheelchair ramp. My arms are screaming, feeling like they've just been squeezed through a strainer. Holding my own head up poses a challenge. I'm wearing a chest harness to keep me upright, and if not for it, I would've already doubled over. I'm coughing up like I'm choking to death by the time we meet halfway between his car and the door.

"You really are sick," Simon says guiltily, his honey-colored eyes dropping to the floor. He shuffles his feet, staring at them awkwardly.

"No," I cough out hoarsely, sucking in air. "I was just off" cough, cough, cough "Taking a holiday..."

He peeks up at me through dark eyelashes. "I thought you were trying to…avoid me," he finally mumbles. "I've been such an asshole to you lately."

My parched lips manage to curl up into a grin. "I'm glad –" cough, cough, cough, "you noticed."

He grins back. "You really should go back inside. I'd head back with you but I don't think Eddie over there would take it nicely," he says. I laugh really loudly; it doesn't bode well for me in my condition, because between the laughter and the coughing, I lose the ability to breathe.

Simon squats down in front of my chair, his face fraught with concern. Once I manage to start coughing regularly again, he relaxes. Very gently, he squeezes my knee. "Take it easy, OK, Cullen?" he says softly. He places my assorted gifts on my lap.

My lips turn up at the corners again. "Thanks, Lowell," I manage to say.

"Oh, and Cullen?" he says, before getting back inside his car. "Watch this show called Malcom in the Middle. You've started to sound like Stevie."

Smiling, I shake my head.

* * *

><p>I was as 'fit as a fiddle' - or my version thereof - by the 1st of May, but the Vamps categorically refused to let me out of the house until May 5th. My once beloved Granddaddy has turned into a kind of Dr. House, barking out orders and diagnoses without any bedside manner. He barked out that if I "maintained this blatant disregard for my health" I would suffocate and die "by a collapsed lung via aggressive pulmonary infection." At that point, however, all I really needed were cough drops. Daddy dearest blatantly disregarded this fact. t wasn't until that Friday that I was finally allowed to attend classes. I was sure the delay had a lot less to do with the state of my bronchia and more to do with my "love life."<p>

I could barely keep up with my own relationships. Once again, things were toasty warm with Simon, who – after his brief bout of irritability – had returned to acting like the sweet, funny boy I'd grown to love so much.

Things weren't, however, entirely back to normal. Because Daddy would probably skin him to smithereens otherwise, Simon and I could only Skype or chat. Whenever Simon sent something, Daddy made potpourri of it – or carnage, in the case of stuffed animals – and shipped it back to the sender. What was worse, there were still flashes of jealous outbursts whenever Buzz was mentioned. It seems as though he was incapable of uttering anything in favor of Buzz, and only spoke scathingly of him.

I was headed in that direction, too. Ever since he ran into Nate Crawford in my balcony, Buzz has grown jealous and possessive. In fact, it's starting to get on my nerves. He'll kiss me with a passion that strikes me as forceful; it's like he wants to pee around my perimeter to mark his territory. Point in fact, if I found his kissing satisfactory before, now I find it troll-like. I'm also disappointed in general; he saw Simon kiss me on the cheek several times and didn't react at all. He sees Nate Crawford give me a pound of Godiva chocolates and he turns into an authentic, Blonde and less hairy Gorilla. When I point out as much, he gets snippy.

"Lowell's a fucking faggot," Buzz snaps.

I nearly screech with rage. "John, I've told you a million times not to call him that," I yell out in a single breath. It sounded like, "Jonaivteldyamillionaimesnotoallimat…" The words come out muffled because of their speed. Brow furrowed, he stares at me.

"Don't strain yourself, baby," he finally says, the gentleness in his "You're sick."

At that, I slam his face roughly with a stuffed Hippo. Crossing my arms across my chest, I sink further down into my pillows. He tries to coax another word out of me, but fails miserably.

Sighing grumpily, he presses a kiss to my forehead and turns on his heel. Buzz walks out slowly, but once he's out the door, he barrels down the staircase and out the door. I don't want to cry, but I spend the rest of the day mopey and irritable. Nobody really notices, perhaps because I've been acting thusly for the past six months.

To be honest, I welcomed the delay. Daddy's suggestions about going to Ireland, to a Catholic, Nun-run boarding school had started to seem like a wonderful idea.

I'm in an equally foul mood the morning of Friday Cinco de Mayo, in spite of the fact that Emmett butchers Mexican culture that entire day. He gives me a whole plate of chalupas that morning for breakfast and wears a hat that could be its own continent. It doesn't improve my mood.

Buzz barely looks at me that morning when he sees me. Instead, he slams his locker door, and presses his forehead against it. He closes his eyes, and turns on his heel.

"I told you that you needed to drop that ridiculous fixation you have with that Nancy Commie," Rose says angrily once we reach my locker. 'Commie' in reference to Simon's half-Romanian background.

Finally, I snap. I spin my chair so forcefully the wheels screech on the floors, leaving a trail of water. "And I told _you _not to stick your nose in my business."

Angrily, I slam the door to my locker. I roll away. I don't even look up to see Rosalie react, because I know that her first reaction to anything is feigned indifference.

* * *

><p>I'm almost crying with rage by the time I reach the door of the Religious Ed classroom. Every single wayward backpack, unintentional and intentional shove in the wrong direction, and stumble over my wheelchair feels like a little stab. I suck in air and breathe it in, as if hoping the feeling will stay locked in my stomach. To make matters worse, when I reach the classroom, Nate Crawford isn't waiting for me. I feel a stab of crushing disappointment - I was actually looking forward to this.<p>

Contrary to anything I ever, ever thought I would say about Julia Crawford's offspring, I've grown to enjoy Nate's presence. He started to bring by my Religious Ed homework – perhaps thinking it good Christian charity – and stays for us to do it together.

Interestingly, the boy is capable of philosophizing without the use of several joints of weed. I told him that I didn't believe in the Virgin Birth and thought Jesus was a normal man, albeit one similar to Gandhi. Nate said he disagreed and was able to back it up with Scripture – which bodes well for Sister Pru. Daddy was furious after that and lectured me on disrespecting the .

I haven't, much to his anger, become any more respectful. When we read psalms out loud, Nate and I add dirty phrases like "In bed." I told Nate about Daddy's lecture, laughing, and amid all that laughter I started talking fondly about the whack job that is my father. In Nate's eyes, Carlisle is now the one that follows me to my dates, has a compulsion for labeling things in his room, calls me fifteen times an hour and doesn't let me handle a kettle of boiling water.

Scoffing exasperatedly, I turn the chair around and park it inside the desk. Nate is still absent. He's been sitting with me for weeks now – or he was. Alice, in turn, has been sitting with Gilbert Something-Something. The two have now struck an unlikely friendship; she waltzes over to him like a fairy, and they delve into an interesting discussion of _Anime _of all things.

Grumpily, I fold my hands atop my elbows and rest my chin there, ready to doze off. Class is going to be so bloody _dull. _

Nate chooses that barrel into the classroom once I've locked the brakes on my wheelchair. When he spots me, he smiles. Peeking up through my lashes, I smile, too.

For a split second, I can't even breathe.

It lasts only as long as his eye-contact does.

I unlock the brakes, dreading the awkwardness a lot less than I ever have. Almost happily, I wheel forward. Nate stumbles past me, lodging his knee brace against one of the stupid chair wheels. Instead of blushing, though, he cups my shoulder in his wake, stroking the shoulder blade with his thumb. Heat flares up my face. Underneath my teeth, my lip curls upward.

"Hey," he says breezily, his smile widening.

"Hey," I say. Sheepish, I give him a smile in return, showcasing a pair of pretty dimples.

Our eyes meet for a second, lingering, blue and green.

Below the table, he taps his foot impatiently as Sister Pru begins handing out questionnaires. Even though she's older than the goddamned school, she still insists on parading through the maze of tables. At the speed of a funeral march.

"I have something to tell you," Nate says excitedly, leaning in towards me. I can smell him, the scent of his minty breath and the drops of aftershave he spreads across light, caramel-colored stubble. As best as I can, I sit up straight.

"Really?" I perk up immediately, dropping the pen I'd been gnawing on. My tiny teeth marks are spread across the entire thing. With a grin, Nate's eyes turn towards my much-assaulted writing utensil.

"You sure you don't need your chew toy for this?" Nate says teasingly. With surprising fondness, he picks up the pox-marked pen by the eraser cap and hands it to me. Butterflies flare up in my stomach, over something quite _stupid. He's handing you a pen, you fucktard, not a rose_, I think to myself.

"I'm sure whatever it is I can handle the nerves," I retort, twirling the pen in between my fingers. In spite of the sass, I have turned an unflattering shade of magenta.

Nate grins from ear to ear. "The brace is off," he enthuses, pointing to a leg I hadn't even noticed. "I can start _swimming _next week and I'll be good by June."

A part of me wants to squawk out "_By June?!_" but I repress the urge. Like I've repressed most urges and feelings in my natural life. My spirits deflate like a punctured balloon. I hide it, giving him a dazzling smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "That's great!" I trill.

Around me, my shoulders slump, collapsing into the rest of me, as if they were as paralyzed as my legs and torso. Nate slings his body forward as if he wants to hug me. Because of the damn chair – the wheel lodges into his knee – his embrace turns into a one-armed squeeze. Nate turns red, no doubt because of the awkwardness. I'm bloody mortified.

"That's really fantastic," I add, more meekly than I wanted to.

It's actually rather awful, I truly think. The premise of this entire relationship is that we were both gimpy. The second that is no longer the case, Nate will go back to ignoring my existence. It _really_ isn't that I'm jealous. In fact, people ask me all the time if I will walk again – like that is my sole, all-consuming life goal. It annoys me more than Emmett on public holidays, really. In some people's minds, I can't have other aspirations; my every waking moment is devoted to getting out of the chair. It's like those corny, made-for-TV movies that end with the wheelchair-bound character walking.

What if I wanted to become the first paraplegic astronaut, or something?

I'm actually happy for Nate, genuinely so. I beam at him while he tells me about his whole rehabilitation process. Nate was so miserable lately, and now he'll go back to being himself – his new, and improved self, hopefully. In turn, I'll go back to being a footnote in this boy's life, a moderately pretty classmate he once had. He'll define me by my wheelchair, as he used to before. Nate will go back to ignoring me, sparing pitiful glances at me like people to at abandoned, ugly mutts on the side of the street. It was how he looked at me before.

I don't know if I could go back to that.

"So, how's it going to work?" I ask, injecting all the genuine enthusiasm I feel for this new development into my question.

Nate starts to talk about the limitations, the timeline Dr. Shah has laid out for him and whatnot. I feign interest, injecting the appropriately tweeted questions and exclamations when necessary.

"It's going to be so great," he says. "I can't wait."

He's smiling like a little kid. I _melt_ inside. The smile I give in return is as large as my chin.

The whole class period passes between Sis Pru's ridiculously homophobic and biased questionnaire on Leviticus and talk of Nate's impending recovery. At some point, one of Sis Pru's law-suit worthy questions spurs on a verbal spar on the matter of homophobia. I'm thankful for the respite. I'm sick of pretending I don't feel like crying.

"…It's unnatural, Ness," he repeats for the 50th time. "They're not _normal, _they're weird."

"On what grounds?" I repeat. "Earlier in the century, a marriage between a black man and a woman was considered unnatural. Hell, there's homoerotic Greek, Roman, Inca artistry. It's only Western pre-Reformation Catholicism that has made it so unnatural."

"It's not normal. There's no biological purpose to a homosexual relationship."

"So what you're saying is, a heterosexual couple shouldn't have sex unless it is for the express purpose of reproduction?" I smirk.

Nate's smile turns cockily lopsided. "I'm not one to say no to a good set of tits and tight pussy," he says slyly. There's a glint in his baby blue eyes.

Grimacing, I throw one of my chewed-out pens at him. It bangs on his head before falling to the table.

"You're disgusting," I say scornfully.

There's neither bite nor glee in my statement, maybe because I mean it so deeply.

"I was kidding!" he says immediately, throwing his hands in the air to plead his innocence. "Really, I would never talk about a woman like that."

I snort.

"Well, not in front of you, anyway," he amends. "I would never disrespect you like that."

My mouth cackles but my heart flares up. My stomach tightens, flips, unfurls.

"You're so full of shit," I say with scathing glee. Because he _is_ full of shit, I say it like I mean it. Distractedly, I begin to chew on my pen, resting my chin against a raised elbow.

"I try not to be," Nate murmurs shyly, almost sadly, gazing at me.

His tone catches me off-guard. I turn to look at him.

"Really, Ness, I - "

Against my better judgment, I meet his gaze. My eyes are almost placid, wide, as they search his expression. For what seems like minutes, we stare at each other, emerald eyes meeting baby-blue ones. He gazes back at me, with something that I delude myself into identifying as desperation.

I break the sudden eye-searching, roughly and abruptly.

"What's bothering you?" he asks.

Nate tucks a wayward hair behind my ear. My consciousness, aware that this one-time friendship is over, dreams up that his fingertips skirt over to my jaw. Underneath them, my skin prickles.

"Nothing," I say, weakly, emotionlessly to keep out irrational pain. I didn't _lose _anything. Nate wasn't a big presence in my life, never has been. True, lately, he has waved at me or smiled at me in the corridor. When I sit next to Buzz in the cafeteria, he has made a point of asking for my opinion. Nate and Cassidy are literally chipped from the same block though. The act of including me strikes me more as a political move than genuine interest.

"I don't believe you," Nate persists.

I shrug one shoulder. "I'm seated next to a douche-slash-bigot."

Nate mulls over my scathing words, looking pensive, not affronted.

"Usually, when you insult me you look all self-satisfied and happy," he counters, a fond grin of amusement on his lips. "Your eyes light up."

He laughs weakly, his face laden with concern.

"Yeah, well, I used to think our little counseling sessions had turned you into less of a jerk," I say, my tone light and my smile playful as I flick his nose.

The icy cold in my heart tells a different tale. Within days, I'm going back to being a personality-less cripple in the vicinity. He _is _a jerk, even if he's shown me lately that he isn't.

And I'm dumb for thinking otherwise.

Nate flinches as though he's actually insulted. "I like to think so, too," he murmurs, an apology in his eyes. "That I'm less of a jerk, I mean."

I let my stupidity run amok, and decide he looks sincere, eyes wide and pleading. Inside me, my stomach summersaults. My heart skips a beat. Underneath my skin, my cheeks turn a light pink. Instead of berating myself for it, I let myself indulge in the fantasy that he appreciates our talks as much as I have.

"Seriously, nothing's wrong," I assure him.

One of the corners of my lips turns up half-heartedly. "I'm just hungry," I lie. Whatever appetite I had was killed like a mosquito with a can of Raid.

"It's almost lunchtime," he tries soothingly, as though personally responsible for my hunger. "I'm sure the food won't be terrible – "

I'm suddenly made nauseous by a sickening scent - by the heavy scent of a heavily floral body lotion and cat urine.

"Hey, Sister Pru," I say flatly, without looking up.

She glowers at me. Besides me, Nate straightens his spine. Like it did several weeks earlier, his hand shoots out to cup my shoulder, scooting close. The gesture strikes me as protective. Inside my chest,

"Are you two done?" she demands in her voice like a creaking door. Her prune-like wrinkles make her look like a hound, and they are contorted with malice. Roughly, she snatches the questionnaire out from underneath my hand. Immediately, Nate wraps his hand around mine, pulling it towards his chest.

"Why don't you see for yourself, Sister?" I say, handing her a blank piece of paper. Once the words have left my mouth, I realize how cheeky they were. Always once the words have left my mouth.

Sister Prudence gasps as though I've spit at her. "Miss Cullen!"

Good god, these people.

"Neither of us finished our worksheets, Sister," Nate tries apologetically, giving her a crooked grin. "Isabella was in fact trying very hard to explain the material so that I could complete mine."

Pru's expression turns even more suspicious; she narrows her eyes viciously. Like a bloodthirsty hound, she is relentless in her pursuit.

"That is no excuse for Miss Cullen's cheek," Pru barks.

She gives me the evil eye. In response, I give her a crooked grin.

"That's very subjective, isn't it, Sister?" Nate says smoothly, "I respectfully disagree."

Sister Prudence scoffs. "You have been a terrible influence on Mr. Crawford," Prudence sneers at me.

"If I may sister, I disagree," Nate says, his voice steely. His grip on my hand tightens, but not painfully so. "Isabella's been the best influence I've ever had."

I'm a verbally and physically incontinent basket-case; who would ever want that as one's best influence? That's what Pru seems to think at that moment; that's what I would think, too.

In that moment, though, the thought doesn't cross my mind. There's no scathing voice in the back of my head, telling me to feel bad for the boy. In fact, I feel lighter than air.

For the rest of the day, a smile stretches from the highest point in my left cheekbone to its right counterpart. Nate practically escorts me out the door, keeping both of his hands on my shoulders. He follows behind me, in between the two hand-grips on my wheelchair the entire time. I synchronize my movements to his; he's still limping, after all. We reach my locker.

Bending at the waist, he squeezes my shoulders. His stubble brushes as it brushes my cheek. "Eh, would you, eh…Would you want to have, eh…lunch with m - us?"

The second the words leave his lips, several things happen. The hollows under my cheeks pool with blood, turning a light shade of pink. Several lockers away from us, a juice box is squeezed to a straw, squirting gold-colored apple juice in all directions.

Simon is clenching the juice-box in his trembling fist. I don't even have time to react; he turns on his heel and stomps away, virtually running.

I close my eyes. I wait for the brief, overwhelming desire to _vanish _to stop. I feel like that often lately - like I'd be better off dead. I don't mull on it often.

Seconds later, roll away from Nate. I tilt my head up in his direction. I smile at him apologetically.

"I promised Simon I'd have lunch with him when I came back," I say. Nate doesn't need to know that caused part of my lover's quarrel with Buzz Hemlich. Buzz claimed hurt feelings, and said that I put more effort into all my other relationships, not ours.

Crestfallen, Nate nods. He squeezes my hand again. "No worries," he finally says softly. "I'll see you around."

* * *

><p>Simon and I agreed we wouldn't have lunch in the cafeteria. Instead, he's arranged for us to have lunch in the library – which is two or three buildings away from the cafeteria, and therefore from my family's prying eyes. I find him sitting on a secluded table by the Encyclopedias, far away from Sister Janet. I swear the woman is as old as the written word, and is as sweet as can be – but she pries. I wouldn't be surprised if she found this little rendezvous as interesting as a presidential debate.<p>

"I made you a Croque Monsieur," Simon says. He announces this like he's telling me doctors found a cancerous growth somewhere. Almost roughly, he takes out the Croque Monsieur. It looks amazing – buttery but not greasy, and I can tell he bought good cheese for it. At the same time, he takes out a Tupperware filled with chocolate-covered strawberries and bits of caramelized apple.

It's such an adorable assortment of food that my smile widens; I feel like crying.

"This is so cute, Si," I say. I want to hug him, but he looks like he'll bite my head off if I do. "Thank you."

I open the Tupperware and stick the food items in the plates Simon brought for the occasion. Somehow, he managed to get a polka-dot theme for the flatware, in reference to my favorite cup from when I was a kid. I still have it. "Is this because of that…?" I say excitedly, my voice so giggly I sound like a baby laughing.

"Polka dot cup, yeah," he finishes flatly. Rather forcefully, Simon stabs his sandwich with a plastic fork. One of the white tridents snaps, in its attempt to penetrate the Croque Monsieur. The now prominent veins, on previously smooth hands, protrude.

"You look happy today," Simon comments stiffly. He's picking at his own food like he can't tolerate a bite.

"Is that a problem?" I ask playfully, laughing, with genuine concern, sweeter than snappish.

"Yes."

Taken aback, I blink spastically – unable to produce a reply.

Simon grabs his water bottle. I grab mine. We swallow.

"I didn't think it would make you so happy to break up with Buzz fucking Hemlich."

"I'm didn't break up with Buzz Hemlich," I say, feeling a surge of defensiveness. The light in my eyes and voice has vanished completely; I feel vulnerable. My shoulders have drooped.

Simon lip curls over his teeth in an ugly sneer, mocking me.

"Then why are you all over Nate Crawford?"

I feel like he just poured a bucket of cold water over me.

My eyes turn into slits. "What business would it be of yours if I were?" I ask.

"The business of a friend," Simon says hotly, arching his back and curling over the table.

Simon and I mirror each other as we take large bites of our respective sandwiches. We chew – ten bites, twenty. At a certain point, my teeth start to snap together because there isn't any food left in my mouth.

"It's not your place to tell me what I can and can't be attracted to, Simon."

Simon turns red, face contorted with fury. His hands shoot up to his head, where they grab onto his scalp. Last week, much to my horror, he cropped it short. It's a habit from a past life. "Yes it is! Yes it IS!"

I swallow thickly, my eyes swimming with tears. The reply is trapped in my throat.

"You're attracted to assholes. Hemlich is an asshole and Crawford is a piece of _shit,_" Simon spits, breathy and fierce, so passionately his hands tremble as he clings the side of the table. He inches closer towards me, and is stopped by the wheels on my chair. "He doesn't even _like _you."

For some reason, what he just said makes me want to cry. I'm too proud to show it.

I laugh coldly instead. "How would _you_ know?"

"He doesn't," Simon vows vehemently, amid shaky breaths. His entire face trembles with anger. "He… Well, he… He pities you because you're disabled."

I can't help it; I start to cry. Very pointedly, his eyes drop to my chair. Anger flares up suddenly, deeper and stronger than ever before. My voice breaks; tears start streaming down my cheeks. Feeling like a wounded animal waging battle, I dig into the ugliest words in my arsenal.

"At least that's not as pathetic as liking me because I can't – can't - walk," I say forcefully, even though my voice is quivering because god knows he hit a nerve. "You're in love with me because you know you can't get a girl that can."

In a fit of undiluted rage, Simon grabs onto his tray and throws it; he slams it hard; it hits a glass window. I jump up in shock, nearly dropping my sandwich. He's accusatory, frenzied, a maniac gleam in his eye. He slams his hand against the table. It rattles under his weight. Out of habit, my hands find the chair wheels as if getting ready to flee. I unlock the brakes.

"I'd be a million times better for you than any of those fuckers," Simon cries, an insane smile of glee on his lips. His eyes are glassy. He sounds breathy, as though the paroxysm has made it difficult to breathe.

I _smell _a trickle of urine slipping into my panties. My heart is pounding so hard I can't even hear what he's saying. "Anybody else is going to hurt you."

"_You_'re hurting me," I say, shaking my head, voice suddenly pleading. "You're the one that's being a jerk."

"Being a jerk?!" Simon squeals. His voice rises to a roar. "I'm trying to _protect _you, goddamn it!" He slams his hand against the table again. A few heads turn in my direction.

Roughly, he acts on the impulse I've been restraining the entire day. He grabs onto both of my dainty shoulders – I never noticed how deceptively frail they are, how small, not until now. Grabbing them both with his wide palms, he roughly pulls me closer towards him. My abdomen hits the very edge of the cafeteria table, closer than it's ever been because my wheelchair doesn't fit… which means I'm not safely seated on it.

I start squirming.

Simon shifts closer towards me, and in response, the chair shifts. It slides off, backwards, the wheel nudged by his knee. Below me, my ass slides off the seat. Underneath me, the soles of my shoes drag against the linoleum, as my feet flop out of the footrests. Our noses are touching. His eyes are boring into mine.

"You need to _listen_," Simon grunts out the word through gritted teeth. Droplets of his spit sprinkle my nose.

Simon shifts forward, grasping my chin. His grip on my chin is terrifying, but painless.

"Stop it!" I command, frightened. I let go off the armrests to swat him off. With trembling hands, I pry his hands off my chin, clawing at them with nails so forceful his skin pricks.

Without my grip, my wheelchair slides backwards.

With a yelp, I crumble to the ground, plopping down with a thud. Legs twisted in front of me, my back hits the footrests and pushes them fully out of the way. With that, I lose all leverage. My head slams against the carpeted floor; my ankles are tangled in front of me.

I hit the floor with a thud. A sickening _crack _follows.

Simon's eyes bulge; he spits out a curse, hands trembling as he tries to retrieve me. "Shit, Nessie, baby, I'm so sorry, Ness-"

Next thing I know, Daddy's hands are on Simon's neck, about to strangle it. Emmett's hands are cradling me, lifting me up into my chair.

Simon's eyes bulge again, turning red as if about to burst with tears. Both of his hands claw at Daddy's hands, but he doesn't flinch. Simon's skin turns an even brighter red; his lips pucker as if to kiss, gasping for air. As though he's as light as a leaf, Daddy raises Simon entire body by the neck.

"I'm going to kill you, boy," Daddy _snarls_, eyes blazing. "I swear on God that I'm going to _murder _you."

His voice is low, terribly so, so much so that it is inaudible in spite of the sudden impenetrable silence.

A drip of sweat breaks off Simon's brow. It falls into the tip of my father's nose. Simon can't breathe. Daddy loosens his fingers' grip. Simon starts trembling, gasping for air, the whites of his eyes nearly scarlet. A croaking, dry sound is coming out of his throat. Very quickly, Daddy's hands jump from Simon's neck, to his shoulders.

"Stop," I plead, finding my voice deep in my entrails. "Please stop."

Back in my chair, I tug on Daddy's shirt.

If not for Daddy's hands, clinging to Simon's shoulders, he would've crumbled to the ground. Simon is still croaking, gasping for breath. Both of Simon's hands are wrapped around his bruised neck, tenderly nursing it. Daddy tightens his grip on his shoulders, shaking him roughly, as if shaking a salt-shaker. "Do you understand that?"

I squeal in horror. Emmett starts to push me away, but I lock the chair breaks. Emmett is strong enough that it doesn't present an impediment. He starts to push me away, a little slower because the chair will break otherwise. It squeaks.

"_Daddy_," I whisper pleadingly.

Simon says nothing, looking at Daddy with pure hatred in his eyes. Nearly imperceptibly, he raises his chin in defiance. Daddy drags him closer, pulling him so that their noses are touching. Upper lip raised over his venom-coated, razor-sharp teeth, Daddy tightens his grip on his prey. "I told you not to hurt her again, and you did. Isn't that despicable, boy?"

"_Daddy!_"

Simon's eyes glaze over. Finally, Simon nods his head. Daddy releases him, disgusted, as though tossing trash into the bin. Simon falls to his knees, still croaking for air.

"Emmett, let go!" I snap.

He doesn't.

Behind me, Dad stalks away from his prey, eyes blazing with fury. "Are you alright, sweetheart? Are you hurt?"

Within seconds, he's knelt besides me, as if examining for injuries.

"What's wrong with you?" I snap at Daddy. "You shouldn't have done that!"

The concern is slapped off his face by my words.

Bright-eyed, he ogles me.

He raises an eyebrow, almost mocking. "I should've done a lot worse," he says, darkly amused. He turns around to look at Simon as though glaring at a cockroach. Croaking, Simon is getting up on shaky knees. Tears are burning at the brim of his eyes, a couple of them falling. Weakly, veined hands shake as he picks himself up, and dusts off. He starts to scamper off, glaring hatefully at my father.

"Simon," I call out, concerned. It escapes my lips before I realize I've said it.

He stops.

Quickly, I wheel out of Emmett's grasp and towards him.

Simon turns on one heel, and suddenly, silence overtakes the cafeteria. His dark, hooded eyes meet mine. I spin closer, carefully measuring the movement, as if approaching a wild animal. He takes a step back. Red-faced, teary, sweaty, he glares at me hatefully, deeply betrayed. The concern in my big, doe-like eyes starts to vanish.

I reach out one hand. He takes a step back as if my hand were filled with pustules.

His lips pucker, and suddenly, he spits at the ground. "You're such a _whore_."

If he were anybody else – if I'd been expecting him to say this – if his words didn't _hurt_, I would have said something.

"You stupid little fag-" Rose stretches out towards us. Alice grabs a fistful of her shirt, restraining her.

Daddy rises to his full height, now an inch or two shorter than Simon Lowell. Luckily, right before he can get past him, I stretch out an arm and grab a fistful of his shirt. "Don't," I say loudly. "He's not worth it."

With one final, hurt and yet standoffish look at Simon Lowell, I turn away.

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><p>I'm propped up on some pillows, knees bent as I scribble on a notebook. There's a stuffed animal underneath my ankles to keep them propped up. My hand flies. This homework assignment is due on Monday. It's not a big deal and it shouldn't take me time to finish.<p>

But this little exercise has kept me from succumbing to the darkness clawing inside.

"Nessie, sweetheart?" Daddy peeks in through the door. "Could I talk to you, love?"

I look up, mildly startled. "Sure, Daddy."

He shuffles his feet as he walks forward, his hands in his pockets. Daddy pushes my wheelchair aside to sit on my bed. Stalling, he tucks a stray hair behind my ear, and begins to gently rub his hand up and down my ankle. He cups my kneecap with his hand. "Have you done your exercises?"

"Rose did them a while ago, yeah." I look at him curiously.

Daddy nods, eyes falling down to my feet. "Carlisle would like to do them again when he comes home from the hospital. Rose mentioned your left abductor is very tight." His voice breaks nearly imperceptibly towards the end, guilt contorting his face. "And your knee ligaments are stiffening, aren't they?" He sounds pained.

"Just a little," I say, not wanting him to worry. I squeeze his hand where it rests atop my kneecap. "It doesn't hurt," I joke.

Daddy blinks, startled, looking affronted. He's never, ever responded well to jokes about paralysis. In fact, he often glares at my wheelchair if he held it personally responsible for the disability it caters to. Ashen-faced, Daddy just keeps on nodding. It looks like he's stalling, stroking my kneecap absentmindedly.

"You didn't just want to talk about my knees, did you, Daddy?" My voice quivers. Tears are starting to burn in the brim of my eyes, because I've felt it in the pit of my stomach. I knew what was coming the second Simon grabbed me by the collar.

He shakes his head; he didn't come in just to tell me that. I shut my notebook and put it to the side. Again, he opens his mouth, and then closes it. A breath flies out. Both of his golden eyes zero in on the vial on my nightstand. It's one of five. "Have you taken your medicine?"

"Yeah," I say, staring at him curiously and then grinning. "I always do, Dad."

Smiling sadly, he brushes tears away from my cheeks.

I shut my notebook and push it to the side. Smiling sweetly, he hands me a large elephant that sits above the chest in front of my bed. I used to call it Mr. Phunky when I was little. Unable to smile back because my lips are trembling, I wrap my arms around Mr. Phunky. I rest my chin on his fluffy head. I tilt my chin downwards to look at Daddy in the eye, peeking up at him with my big, doe-like eyes.

Daddy runs a finger down my pert little nose to the tip of my chin. "You're my entire _world_, angel," he says almost reverently. "I love you so much."

Tears are streaming down my face.

"You didn't come into boost my ego, did you, Daddy?" I ask, attempting to sound joking, trying to keep my tone light. My voice is trembling too hard for that to happen.

Still stalling whatever it is he can't say, he suddenly shifts position, putting both of my feet on his lap. Agony contorts his features as he runs his fingers up and down my feet, dangling like dead weight, unresponsive to his touch.

My big, doe-like eyes are huge. I peek up at him questioningly through thick, butterfly eyelashes. Big, fat tears are streaming down my cheeks. Daddy brushes them away with his fingers.

"The most important thing I want you to understand is that I'll always love you more than anything in the world, and that you'll always be my first priority," he says seriously.

"I love you, too, Daddy. I love you so much."

Smiling solemnly, he presses his fingers against my lips. "And I want you to understand that none of what is about to come is your fault. None of it."

I suck in air, unable to let out the sob. It chokes me. I can't breathe back out; I turn red from the sob. The thought screams louder than any words I'll ever say. _It is my fault, Daddy. _

"No, it's not, sweetheart. It's not," he says intensely. "You couldn't control how I reacted."

"But if you – I mean..If..If the police…"

"Sweetheart, _I _was the one that merited prosecution by the law, you understand?" he says forcefully. "I won't say you did _nothing _wrong with respect to your …friendship with that boy…but I also won't hold you accountable for my arrest."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Exactly a year and two days ago, I published the Roads to Rome. I would like to thank Nise, the author of Impact, for all of her support. This story would not exist without her. She doesn't know it, but she's taught ME a lot, not only about writing but also about acceptance. A big thanks to all reviewers - I reply and deeply appreciate all your reviews. Jul-l-amazone, KSave and bmthespian, your feedback has been invaluable.

And on an entirely different note...We are but a chapter away from the end of Part I (and from Jake). All reviewers will get a sneak-peak to Jake and what he's been up to the past 16 years.

To be honest, without school in between summers, I would have probably finished this story by now. I really hope that this story will be really far along before the end of the summer. But not to worry - I won't leave anybody hanging.


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